


Parabola

by DorMarunt



Series: Parabola [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: M/M, Soulmates, Tender Railing, The Mint Heist, Time Husbands, Time Travel AU, Whump, a little bit of murder, a little bit of smut, a whole lot of world building, a whole lot of ~romance, first time they met, there were two beds!!!, there's also rope, various povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorMarunt/pseuds/DorMarunt
Summary: He's a former Time Agent, released from his contract, in search of thatsomeonethat not even the thorough memory-wipe managed to erase. Now he has to jump through infinite timelines just to find them.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Parabola [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856038
Comments: 76
Kudos: 77





	1. Angle of parallelism

**Author's Note:**

> The concept is loosely based on the Temps Commission of The Umbrella Academy.

* * *

He had stopped counting jumps and cycles long ago, long before the Agency reluctantly released him from his contract. They were all on file, of course, but he stopped caring after the first dozen missions or so. It didn’t really matter anymore; he didn’t care about numbers.

He didn’t remember anything about his first life. That was protocol, a full memory wipe for the new recruits, rendering them a blank slate, free of preconceived notions and open to be trained as a Temporal Agent. Yet, he still had moments, moments that came randomly and burst all at once, overwhelming him. They weren’t actual memories, more like sensations, shapeless flashes and feelings of familiarity and  _ love _ that became all the more vivid whenever he found himself in certain timelines. But he remembered.

He clung to those non-memories with everything he could. During long missions, they were the thing keeping him grounded, motivated beyond that forcefully instilled drive the Agency had planted in him. He didn’t always feel fully human, especially after the first couple of missions when he rediscovered what being human  _ really _ meant. It was as if regular people lived in so many dimensions, while he’d been robbed of nearly all of his. Bi-dimensional, stunted. 

But he’d chosen to be free once his contract was up. Not many Agents did. He was now free to roam the so-called ‘burned’ timelines, the ones where The Agency didn’t manage to course-correct history to their desired outcome so any temporal interference didn’t bring along devastating ripples - to their plan, at least. Whatever it was. He chose to be free and to rebuild himself as best he could, to pad the rough outline of himself that was left behind after the job took out the rest.

He’d sometimes found himself in timelines with other former Agents; he could always feel the almost electric current, the way time didn’t feel  _ right _ , how it bent and flowed unnaturally. He usually left those timelines, despite the heartbreak when he felt like he might have been in one of the right ones. 

Spain. The 1980s. He’d been there before, on a mission that he was prompted to abandon before completion - he had no idea why, it was above his clearance level so he simply accepted it and moved on to the next mission. But he’d made a note of it and now he’d finally returned. The feeling wasn’t as strong as in other timelines, so he knew there was a good chance it wasn’t the right one. And yet, as soon as he stepped in, he felt something. That feeling of non-deja-vu, a strange familiarity, and flashes, always flashes. He had learned how to let himself be led by those leftover instincts, how to get drawn to just the right persons.

In this case, it was a boy, Sergio. Young, sickly, perpetually hospital-bound. It wasn’t who he was seeking, that much he knew once he found himself in Sergio’s presence, but the time-smell lingered on him. It hadn’t happened yet, he could feel it, but he was on the right path to meet them - whoever they were, that person, that spectre in his mind. 

So he settled into there and then. He injected himself into the consciousness of Sergio’s half brother, a rather good looking young man called Andrés, then took a few small lateral and forward incursions to catch glimpses of what might come next. Great, a life of crime; that he could very much work with. He’d had domestic bliss, he’d had full debauchery as well and he took as much of each experience as he could to better round himself up. But it was time to settle into his personal mission, feeling that he stood a better chance now that he was  _ more _ . More than an Agent, more than an emotionally-stunted, too-hollow person. He had very few certainties left anymore, but he hoped, he really did, that if he became as much of his initial self as he could, it would be easier to find that lingering presence in his mind. 

And then, in the early 2000s, he finally met him. For the first time in so many cycles,  _ he met him _ . He’d felt drawn to a particular bar that night so he went in, heart wrapping itself in a knot, knowing better than to fight the pull once he began to recognize it. 

_ Martín _ , his friends called him. Andrés didn’t recognize his face, not consciously at least, not in any way that could be described as ‘recognition’. But he felt an overpowering pull from the very second he stepped inside that cramped, loud place, and found him instantly in the crowd, as if he were a beacon of light in complete darkness. 

There he was, laughing brightly with a group of friends, downing beer after beer and taking to the dance-floor with such abandonment, fully immersed in the music and completely oblivious to how absolutely ridiculous he moved. Andrés couldn’t take his eyes off him and wanted so much to approach him, to drag him into his arms and hold him there, to feel exactly how the man molded into that spectre permeating his mind. 

He chose not to; his training prevailed against every instinct in his body - his innate instincts, the ones that neither the memory wipe nor the grueling training managed to erase - and he decided to watch instead. Martín was, of course, oblivious that he was being watched, and that made it all the better; the chance to see him in his element, not hiding anything, not pretending, just joyfully existing. Andrés studied him from behind his own glass, marveling at how every new thing he discovered about Martín felt so warm, so familiar.  The way Martín put his hand on his hip, how he cocked his head _ just so _ when he talked, his crooked nose, even that chip in his tooth that flashed the pink of his tongue; all of it. How he was perfectly average-height and yet he seemed oddly small, how he drew every look from his friends when he talked, how he threw his head back when he laughed. Andrés was remembering things that he never felt he experienced to begin with, and the feeling was monumental. 

It was the thing he’d been seeking for as long as he could remember - as long as he regained the ability to remember, that is - and he’d finally found it. He had to stop himself a few times from walking over, from approaching the man that time when he went to the bar to get a round of shots. But he couldn’t meet him, not yet. He’d have to study him, to understand him so he could better bring him into his orbit. Andrés ached when Martín left, early in the morning, stumbling drunkenly, aided by his equally drunk friends. 

He followed them at a distance to the hotel they were roomed - a modest-looking one, not far from the bar. So they were not local, which was less than ideal. Andrés booked a room close to Martín’s and waited; ready to formulate a plan to resume his observations the very next day.

Andrés woke up in the shrill sound of a phone ringing. He blinked wearily, trying to remember where he was, and when. A hotel room, fine, good; a hotel room like so many others he’d been in. Definitely some time in the beginning of the 21st century judging by the electronics in the room. He tried to remember his mission but nothing came back - until he remembered, and relaxed. He was free. No more missions, no more kills. 

Then the phone started to ring again, and it all came rushing back. Martín. He had found him, he had finally found the one link to his past, his true past. He reached over the bed to the night stand and took the phone, and the chipper voice on the other end of the line asked if he would like to extend his stay or vacate the room. Fuck. One look at his watch and yeah, it was noon.

Fuck. 

“I’m sorry miss, my friends in room 215, can you tell me if they’ve left for the day? They were supposed to wake me up but it seems that they pulled a prank on me.”

A small pause, the phone was set down, then picked up after a couple of seconds.

“I’m sorry sir, but it seems that your friends checked out this morning.”

“Fuck.” Then quickly, apologetically. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe they did this. Yes, I’ll be right down, I’ll also be checking out.”

The door to room 215, where Martín and his friends had been, was wide open and the maintenance crew was lugging out the laundry. 

Andrés had had another black-out. He’d been having them more often recently, a lingering side-effect of hundreds of cycles and time jumps, infinitely more difficult to deal with now that he didn’t have The Agency’s resources at his disposal. This meant no time jumps for a few days at least, if not weeks, and a lot of meditation to heal the scrambled pathways of his brain. 

The girl at reception was young, extremely chatty and quite flirty - which was perfect for Andrés, who turned on his charm and got her to leave the desk to fetch him more of the awful souvenir magnets that he requested ‘as a present for his friends’. Maybe not the finest of excuses, but it worked. The girl left for the magical “in the back” place that apparently housed even more of the tacky magnets, and Andrés took advantage and turned the computer monitor to scan for the entries about room 215. 

_ Martín Berrote. Spain, Avenida de Aragon 228, Madrid.  _ Which could not be right, because that was the address of the hotel they were in. Fuck. 

Hopefully, at least the name was correct. Martín Berrote.

Martín Berrote, of some place, who was probably already on a plane to somewhere else. Lost. For now.

The next couple of weeks Andrés spent in near-constant meditation. He missed the quickfixes they got at HQ, when a mere fifteen minutes plugged in the modulator did the job and made Agents instantly ready to jump again. But he’d said goodbye to that world, so now he had to make do the old fashioned way. 

His first instinct was to jump to a different timeline and find Martín in that bar, again, but he’d learned early on that time was fickle and that the butterfly effect was a bitch. All it took was for a small, apparently insignificant thing to happen differently, and the whole timeline changed. And the mere presence of an Agent was a disturbance, let alone the myriad of other things that could fall into place wrong and set things in motion on a different path. Once, the mark that he was sent to kill died in a car accident, right in front of Andrés’ eyes, because the man driving was blinded for a second by a flash of light reflected in Andrés’ watch. Definitely not how it was intended, an event unforeseen even by the Watchers at HQ. 

So no, trying another timeline was not a surefire thing; who’s to say that one of Martín’s friends wouldn’t, say, twist their ankle and end up in the hospital instead of that bar? And given Andrés’ recent blackouts, he wasn’t willing to risk making any more unnecessary jumps.

The second best idea he had was actually a pretty bad one: he could jump back in time in the same timeline and go for a re-do. 

It was one of the first things they covered during training; jumping back into the same timeline was a bad idea; re-injecting themselves in an old version of their bodies was too risky as leftover artifacts could irreversibly mess with their brains. Andrés had done it precisely twice before, thankfully with no ill-effects, but had seen agents taken off the field more or less permanently after bad jumps. It was a gamble, sure, but it was the best thing he could think of in order to track Martín.

Andrés had gotten used to the post-jump sickness, but jumping back into the same timeline was a whole new beast. He felt violently sick and voided his guts the instant his consciousness came online, then promptly fell to the floor, unconscious once more. 


	2. Intersecting Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > And yes, that was without a doubt who Andrés had been searching for. It was Martín all along. Martín, with his too-blue eyes. Martín, with his crooked nose, his shaggy hair. Martín, all gangly limbs and lingering teenage awkwardness, youth still clinging to his features, making the faint stubble on his cheeks seem oddly out of place. Martín of a hundred lives ago, Martín of right now. 

When Andrés finally came to, it was well past noon. He cleaned up as best he could, left the balcony doors wide open to get rid of the stench of bile and jumped into the shower. 

He took too big a risk coming back so close to the evening - mere hours - which was nowhere near enough time to put himself back together had something gone wrong with the jump. Unexpectedly, however, he discovered that no discernible damage had been done by the jump back. He could relax. Focus.

He wondered for way too long whether picking a new outfit this time around would have any effect on the timeline, but eventually decided against it. He didn’t want to take any risks, it was too important an evening for that. It was, quite possibly, the most important moment in his many lives, he realised as he swallowed back the knot forming in his throat.

His many lives. What a strange concept he’d been taught to accept as his new normal. Not that anything about his life - lives? - was in any way normal; not for regular people, and not for Agents either. He was one of the few Agents to choose to be free of their contact; he was also one of the only ones, if not _the_ only one to still retain some memories of his original life. Andrés thought these two things were connected; all Agents were instilled with this immovable sense of duty that the vast majority could never shake, so they all served with the Agency until they died. But him? He’d found something else inside him, something unknown but so strong that had him sign the release papers the second the time had come. 

Add to that the fact that he’d actually found what he had been looking for, and things started to make even less sense. The odds against him were astronomical, because no matter how numerous his jumps had been, the timelines were infinite, as were the variations within them. But there he was, having apparently beaten all those odds, in the already extraordinary circumstances of his existence. 

What now? 

He’d often thought about what would happen after he’d met that person in his memories, how it would all play out. Sure, he’d do everything possible so that they’d live their lives together, but Andrés’ time would eventually run out, and he’d die. What then? Even as a former Agent, his pathways remained set the way the Agency had recalibrated them: once he died, once a cycle ended, his consciousness would come back. Random place, random time, random body. Over and over, until eventually his battered neurons would get too jumbled to start again. 

That meant he’d have to look for Martín again; whoever he was in each timeline. Again and again, until he ran out his time. 

But until then, until there were no more impulses left to fire in his brain, he had tonight. And he was finally ready.

Seeing Martín again was just as overpowering as the first time. It hit him like the first rush of nicotine after a long break, like sitting up after having too many shots on an empty stomach. It was, for lack of a better word, _emotional_. Andrés almost laughed at the thought, at being emotional after being praised for being the exact opposite for so long. But he couldn’t deny it. He felt like he did the first time he saw the Sistine Chapel or like that over-indulgent time when he took a jump just so he could watch Mozart play. He knew now that he’d be content just watching Martín, it would be strangely enough and too much at once. But he couldn’t just watch this time around. He had to act, he had to make sure he wouldn’t lose Martín again.

He settled at the bar, waiting for the moment Martín broke off from his friends to order a round of shots, and then he was right beside him, so close that Andrés was sure the other man could feel his heartbeat with how loudly it thumped in his chest, a counterbeat to that awful music around them. He reached over as if to pick up an abandoned coaster, and his hand brushed against the back of Martín’s.

Electric. Whatever pick-up line Andrés had, it vanished and his mind went positively numb. Martín turned to him as if he’d felt it too, eyes widened to mirror Andrés’. 

His blood pressure must have dropped because the music suddenly sounded far away, and he could see Martín’s lips moving although he couldn’t hear a thing.

“Andrés.” He offered, unprompted, hoping the other man had introduced himself too.

“Are you okay?” Martín had leaned closer, voice finally audible. “You went all pale. Hey!”

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay? Do you need some air?”

“Uhh.” 

Andrés was unsure of what was happening. Vertigo, sudden nausea settled in as his stomach was twisting itself into knots and the beat of the music pounded in his temples. He couldn’t think clearly and didn’t know whether it was the effect Martín had over him or leftover sickness from the time jump. He opened his mouth but found absolutely nothing to say. 

“Wait a second, I’ll be right back.” And Martín turned around, downing one of the shots before taking the small tray to his friends. 

He returned, as promised, after having said something to his friends, and offered Andrés his hand. 

“Let’s go out for a second, okay? You look like you’re about to throw up.”

Andrés accepted Martín’s hand, gripped it tightly, maybe a bit tighter than the situation called for, and followed him through the dancing crowd, up the stairs and out into the cool night. 

“Shit. I’ll go back and get you a bottle of water.”

“No.” He hadn’t let go of Martín’s hand - if it were up to him he would never let go - and shook his head. “I’ll be fine, just. Stay with me for a while?”

“Sure, man.”

“Thanks.” 

Andrés leaned against the wall, taking several deep breaths. At some point Martín pulled out a cigarette from a pack in his pocket, a practiced one-handed motion, flicking the pack open, finger pushing one of the sticks up before catching it between his lips. He noticed the way Andrés was looking at him, the clamminess of his skin, and reconsidered, tucking the cigarette and pack away. 

The cool air did help a bit, but it was still minutes, long minutes spent in silence before he felt the vertigo dissipate and his heartbeat fall back into a calmer rhythm. 

“Really, thank you.” It was the only thing Andrés could say, and it was all the better because it was heartfelt. He was thankful to Martín. He was thankful for Martín, and he’d met him for all of five minutes - really met him, this time. 

“No problem. Are you feeling better? What happened?”

Andrés shrugged. This wasn’t at all how he envisioned their encounter; he wasn’t his cocky, confident self but had turned into something to be saved, to be helped. He was really thankful that Martín was kindhearted enough to offer that help, no questions asked.

And they were still holding hands as if it was a perfectly normal thing that strangers did outside a bar.

“Long day. I haven’t had much to eat today, so that might have been it.”

Martín raised an eyebrow, and blossomed in a smile. 

“Then I think I have just the thing for you. Are you okay to walk for a couple of blocks?” 

Martín pulled back his hand; what an awful feeling but Andrés knew he’d been holding it for longer than the socially acceptable amount of time, so he reluctantly let go. They walked for a couple of streets before he found it in himself to talk again.

“I’m Andrés, by the way.”

“I gathered; it’s what you told me when I first asked if you were okay.”

“Oh.” Andrés cringed just the tiniest bit at the memory. 

“Martín.” He stretched out his hand again and Andrés shook it, amused by the sudden formality. “Are you a local, Andrés?”

“Yes. Since a couple of years ago, at least.”

“Then you might know this place.” Martín gestured towards a brightly lit storefront. “We’ve discovered it the first night we arrived in Madrid and we’ve been back every single day since.”

“Arepas? I’d have pegged you as Argentinian by your accent.”

“And you’d be right. Buenos Aires, born and raised.” Martín said, proudly. “But I can never say no to a good arepa, and these are some of the best I’ve ever had.”

Martín was right, the arepas were certainly fantastic. The restaurant was a Venezuelan family-owned business, and Andrés watched how easily Martín started to talk to the owner, slipping back into his thick Argentinian accent, talking animatedly about home, about their own corner of the world and how time had changed it. 

Andrés’ belly now filled, the nausea was long forgotten as he slipped into relaxed conversation with Martín. Turns out they were in Madrid as a celebration for graduating their master’s in Civil Engineering, his friends and him. When Andrés inquired, tactlessly, whether he was too old to have just gotten his master’s, Martín laughed instead of being offended. 

“That’s my fault, really. I was a real shit my first years of university. Drunk, high, you name it. Some; how should I put it? Less than fortunate encounters with the law and all that.” Andrés raised an eyebrow, but Martín didn’t give any more details. “But I managed to get my shit together eventually and here I am. Martín Berrote, engineer. Graduated first in my year and everything.”

“The looks _and_ the smarts; ain’t I lucky to have run into you?” 

“And you, señor…?” And he stopped, realizing he didn’t have Andrés’ last name.

“Andrés.”

“Just Andrés? Like Madonna, or Prince?”

Andrés laughed. “Andrés de Fonollosa.”

“And what is it that do you do, señor de Fonollosa?”

“I’m just a boring entrepreneur.”

“Hmm. And what exactly is it that you’re um. Enterprising?”

“Oh you know. This and that.” Andrés answered vaguely enough, hoping that Martín would let the subject drop. He wasn’t interested in giving too many details about himself, and Martín didn’t seem entirely opposed to his reluctance. 

“Right. And was exactly was _a boring entrepreneur of this and that_ doing in that bar tonight?”

“Looking for you.” Andrés answered, truthfully, all flirt and coyness. 

Martín’s lips tightened in a smile, and he bit his lip as he shook his head. 

“Why señor de Fonollosa, are you hitting on me?”

“Is it working?”

Martín sucked at his teeth, still shaking his head, obviously pleased with how the night was turning out.

“Very much, yes.”

“Good. We can take a cab to my place.”

Martín gasped, fake-outrage as he put his hand to his chest. “So you think that just because you bought me dinner I’m going to put out?” And then, before Andrés could get out any more of his smartass replies, Martín continued. “Because I totally am. Not because of the dinner - even though, thank you, you really didn’t have to-”

“No, it was my pleasure, especially after what you’ve done for me. I should be the one thanking you.”

“You’re really nice company, señor de Fonollosa. The pleasure was all mine. Nice company and a nice ass, too.”

The cab ride to Andrés’ apartment was a handsy affair, and the cab driver didn’t even look at Andrés when he paid his fare, muttering something unintelligible under his breath and shaking his head as he sped away.

The groping continued on the short elevator ride as well, and Andrés all but threw Martín against the door as soon as he closed it behind them. He was no stranger to passion, he’d definitely experienced more than his fair share of it during the long stretches of time he’d inhabited, but this seemed to carry that much more weight.

This was Martín. 

Andrés never felt much of a romantic. Sure, he appreciated the aesthetic, understood the concept and had dabbled in it a few times. At first, he wasn’t sure who that person in his memories would be to him, thinking for the longest time that it had to be his family. In a way, he was right. But from the very second he laid eyes on Martín, he understood. Martín was his love. In that first life of his, in this timeline and in many others too. His love. His soulmate. 

His horny, shameless soulmate; who was working to undo Andrés’ pants mere minutes after they entered his place, who was now on his knees, making this almost pained face when he got Andrés’ cock out, groaning and biting the inside of his lip at the sight.

“God, even your dick is gorgeous, damn!”

“Wait, wait-” Andrés put his hand on Martín’s shoulder, and he stopped, looking up confused. “Let’s take this to the bed, shall we?”

“But I was hoping you’d fuck me right here, against this door, hard enough to have your neighbors complain.”

“Oh, I plan to make you scream, Martín. Those doors stay open,” he gestured towards the balcony with his head. “But I want to take my time with you, you see? I want to savor you slowly, to fuck you so thoroughly--”

“Will you be talking throughout? Don’t get me wrong, I could come just from listening to you read the newspaper, but right now? Enough with the talking.”

Andrés smiled and realized that he hadn’t actually kissed Martín properly until then. Not the way he wanted to, at least. So he pulled at him until he was on his feet again, pressing him against the door, his palms on either side of his head, and looked. That was Martín, the spectre in his dreams, this person who had been so important to him that not even a thorough memory wipe could erase. That was Martín, and he was there, flushed, pupils shot wide wide lust; he was there and he was equally willing, leaning in to meet Andrés. Their lips barely brushed, slow and tantalizing, and it was Martín who took charge, grabbing the back of Andrés’ head between his palms, burying his fingers in his hair as he kissed deeper, breaking away for just a second to look at him before sliding his lips over Andrés’ again. 

And yes, that was without a doubt who Andrés had been searching for. It was Martín all along. Martín, with his too-blue eyes. Martín, with his crooked nose, his shaggy hair. Martín, all gangly limbs and lingering teenage awkwardness, youth still clinging to his features, making the faint stubble on his cheeks seem oddly out of place. Martín of a hundred lives ago, Martín of right now. 

Andrés did take his time to undress him, right there, against the door, rewarding him with kisses for every item of clothing that fell to the floor. There. He’d unwrapped him just like a present, and he was now ready to enjoy him. Taking his hand for the second time that night, Andrés led him to the bed, turning him around as soon as his calves hit the edge and pushing him roughly down. Martín fell, air pushed out of him as he hit the mattress, then got up on his elbows.

Andrés knew he looked indecent, dick still hanging out of his trousers, a very visible testament of how much he was enjoying the proceedings. He was pondering whether to take Martín like that, without removing any of his own clothes until Martín reached out from the bed and pulled Andrés’ belt free from its loops, twisting one end around his fist. 

“Want to tie me up?”

Andrés threw his head back, laughing. 

“And do you often let strangers take you to their homes and tie you up?”

“Only on Tuesdays.” Martín offered casually, working to rearrange himself on the bed. “Besides, you’re hardly a stranger. I know, like, five things about you. Six, if you count the fact that you have a marvelous dick.”

A dick that Andrés intended to put to good use immediately, climbing on the bed to straddle Martín, his knees on either side of his shoulders. He hovered there, above Martín’s face, his cock hanging suggestively above the open lips underneath, just a little out of reach, making Martín chase him just a bit before wrapping his lips around it. 

Two very distinct sides were fighting in Andrés’ mind, one that wanted to really explore Martín, to discover him inch by inch, to slot him like jigsaw pieces in the outlines of his memories, and the other- Well, the other just wanted to flip Martín over and fuck him into the mattress. Apparently it took Andrés countless lives to find Martín, and the first thing he did when he found him was to get balls deep in him. His life was ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the next couple of chapters more or less ready, but time travel is finicky and I don't want to mess up so I'm taking my time with this story, which I **absolutely love** writing. Really, it's on my mind constantly, and has gone through so many iterations by now until finally settling into what it is / will be.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dormarunt)! I'm still learning how to communicate with other humans. :)


	3. Gaussian Curvature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Martín was dancing. He wasn’t particularly good at this kind of dancing - this wasn’t tango, it wasn’t moving his hips in that way that came naturally to him. It was free-form. Liberating. Silly, shameless and carefree. He’d be out of the country in a few hours, so it didn’t matter what anyone thought. His friends? They knew him, knew exactly who he was, knew exactly why they were there.
> 
> Martin spends his last night in Madrid in a bar. And in Andres' apartment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I (re)wrote this while listening to [ Stromae’s “Défiler”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGJAkyTgwi8) on repeat, so, um. I do recommend a listen. Or more. 

Martín was dancing. He wasn’t particularly good at this kind of dancing - this wasn’t tango, it wasn’t moving his hips in that way that came naturally to him. It was free-form. Liberating. Silly, shameless and carefree. He’d be out of the country in a few hours, so it didn’t matter what anyone thought. His friends? They knew him, knew exactly who he was, knew exactly why they were there.

They also knew what to do next, once they went back to Buenos Aires. A couple of them had job interviews lined up, Mauro even had a job offer and was set to start within a week. Everyone seemed to have their futures worked out - all but Martín.

It weighed on him, the expectation of adulthood, of employment, of drudgery and daily commuting and deciding what to do with his few vacation days. Having a family - a wife, two kids, maybe a pet; a house and chores and bills and planning barbecues with his friends in the little time he’d have left to be human, to be a person, not just a cog in somebody else’s machine. 

He hated all that, and above all, hated that it was  _ expected _ of him. 

He wasn’t going to do any of it though. He’d disappointed his parents pretty early on. At first, by coming out, robbing them of all their fantasies for lavish weddings and doting on grandbabies. And then he got arrested. The first time wasn’t so bad, he still found some understanding, in his mother at least, but after the second? That was it, he was on his own. So he gave himself the best chances to make it, and he threw himself into his studies. 

But now those were over too. They took a spur-of-the moment trip to Spain, just to get drunk and celebrate, and that was almost over as well. So he was going to wring as much as he could out of those last few hours; he’d get stupid drunk, make a fool out of himself and, hopefully, get laid in a spectacular fashion.

He was nearly two out of three on his list of priorities when he spotted the man at the bar. It was difficult not to, he stood out like a sore thumb in that three-piece suit of his, looking way too aristocratic to be in that particular setting. His friends kept egging him on to make a move, to engage, but he felt oddly… intimidated?

He did want to see him up close though, so when someone shouted  _ shots! shots! shots! _ he jumped to the occasion and offered to buy that round. Squeezing himself against a very tall, loud woman, he pressed against the bar right by the man. He ordered his shots, trying for a casual look back to his group of friends as means to mask the ogling he was planning, and then the other man’s hand brushed against his own and-

There were no words to describe it. Other than maybe electric; yeah, that was the right term. Long fingers brushed against the back of his hand, an awkward motion towards a coaster, and Martín stopped. He stopped and stared, and didn’t know why, nor how, but he felt his heart jump out of rhythm. The man was- he was so many things. Beautiful in a wild yet restrained way. Eyes alight, so much weight behind that look, so much fire; it was utterly disconcerting. He looked both out of place and out of time. He looked  _ regal _ . 

The gorgeous specimen of a man looked at him with equal marvel, lips parted, and this unnatural, sickly pallor.

“Are you okay?”

“Andrés.” 

So no, Martín decided, watching him get paler and paler. 

“Are you okay?” He leaned closer, trying to make himself heard over the infernally loud music. “You went all pale. Hey!”

Martín downed one shot - inhale, drink, exhale - then went to his friends to tell them not to wait for him and that they’d meet back at the hotel. Sure, they had an early flight, but Andrés? It would be a crime to not go where the night might take them.

He offered his hand and led Andrés through the bustling crowd, narrowly avoiding getting elbowed in the face a couple of times, until they were outside, leaning against the wall of the club. All while still holding hands, which was nice and unusual and, Martín thought, a very good promise for the rest of the night.

If the guy didn’t end up being too sick or otherwise out of it, of course. 

Which, much to Martín’s relief and delight, he didn’t. The cold air restored the color in his cheeks and the life in his eyes, and when he said that he had just been hungry - an absolute lie, Martín was sure for no discernable reason - he dragged him to that arepas place they’d discovered.

Within the first ten minutes of having sat down at that table in the window, Martín decided that he was going to fuck Andrés by the time morning rolled around. He didn’t know whether it was the fact that he was going to basically be on a different continent in the next 24 hours that emboldened him, or maybe the fact that the man was hitting every single one of Martín’s entries on his  _ ‘yes’ _ list. Every. Single. One. Tall, dark, and handsome?  _ check _ Clever?  _ check _ Gorgeous mouth?  _ check _ Had all the markings of a gentleman much older than himself?  _ huge fucking check _ Forward and flirty?  _ check that too _

So yes, he was definitely getting lucky, he decided, taking a furtive peek in his wallet to see if he still had a condom there - which he did. Good.

Fortunately, the guy was direct enough because the conversation went from ‘so where are you from’ to ‘let’s take a cab to my place’ in what had to be record time, even for Martín. It was funny, he thought for about five seconds when getting his hands batted out of Andrés’ lap for the third time in a row, that he was so relaxed. He thought that he should probably worry whether the stranger whose house he was willingly going to was actually an axe murderer or something similarly sinister. He broke the kiss for a second, leaning back until he hit the car door, looking at Andrés while wiping spit out of the corner of his mouth. No, definitely not the axe-wielding type, he decided before diving back, locking lips awkwardly in the cramped backseat of the cab.

The first thing that Martín noticed in Andrés’ apartment was the fact that Andrés had artwork displayed; actual artwork, like paintings and small statues and various… things pinned to the walls.  _ Probably a drug lord _ , Martín thought briefly before chasing the thought away. He was  _ not _ going to let any kind of self-preservation instinct ruin his night.

It was a spur of the moment idea on his part, asking Andrés to tie him up with that belt, an idea that Andrés took to with enthusiasm - and unnerving expertise. He quickly chased away the thought,  _ he could be an assassin _ , choosing instead to believe that he was actually just a regular, plain-old kinkster. 

Martín had one night. One night of no strings, no consequences, no after-thoughts. One last night to float aimlessly - that’s what it felt like - before going back home. Before having to figure out what the rest of his life would look like. But that wasn’t until tomorrow. Until then, all that mattered and all that Martín wanted were right there. 

Andrés was, simply put, fascinating. It was as if he couldn’t make up his mind between making love and fucking, it was confusing and beautiful and just the thing Martín seemed to need. One second Martín felt simply worshipped, fingers brushing across long stretches of skin, turning from pleasant to ticklish until it all became almost too painful with the sensory overload. He found the exact spots that made Martín weak, the patch of skin under his ribs that, when kissed, sent shivers down his legs, the overly sensitive skin on the back of his thighs. And then, just as he thought he would either come or die from all the attention, Andrés changed strategies, turning him over, maneuvering him, arranging him as he best thought, and he  _ took _ . 

Relentless was the word for it, and Martín almost laughed at this thought, this wild thought that he was happy he’d already gotten his diploma, because he was being fucked absolutely  _ stupid _ . When Andrés untied his hands and Martín was already so on the edge he was sure he’d come within seconds, Andrés stopped. He stopped and he looked, so hungry, so damn intimidating, that Martín felt, for a second, embarrassed. Naked in more than the literal sense. He felt watched, studied. Enveloped in a fuzz of fascination that made him feel equal parts warm and uncomfortable - because he wasn’t all that, he didn’t warrant such raw emotion. Such wonder. 

And then his hips were lifted from the bed, face burying in one of the pillows and there was a tongue between his cheeks, and no, Martín thought, that wasn’t fair, he wasn’t ready for that. He winced a bit; he surely tasted of lube and condom and just-- but there was no hesitance, no complaints; just eagerness. 

Andrés slipped back in, pushing a moan out of Martín, a string of “ _ you’re so good, Martín _ ”, “ _ thank you for showing me how much you enjoy it” _ and other sweet, overwhelming nothings that kept pouring out of his mouth and fuck if that didn’t make Martín reconsider his policy of talking through sex. 

He tried for a whispered,  _ “yes, daddy” _ , at which Andrés immediately stopped and replied with a firm, _ “no.” _ before resuming his thrusting.

Hilarious. I mean, the timing, the delivery, the whole awkward attempt to discover each other’s buttons; it was too perfect, and Martín started to laugh. Not to offend, but because it was just that funny. 

Andrés didn’t stop thrusting even for a second, fucking him through giggles until they turned right back into moans. Martín felt like he was lighting up from the inside, the pleasure building in waves, ebbing and flowing with Andrés’ movements. And then he stopped. He stopped, again, right before Martín could grip onto the edge of that pleasure build, the one right before he was able to let go and come. It was frustrating, it was tantalizing, it was maddening but it was also everything he needed.

Somehow he found himself, once more, on his back, bent almost in half, knees pressed against his chest as Andrés’s hips rolled, making Martín scramble to find something to hold on to, something to ground him. It was better like that, better because he could watch Andrés, study his expressions and those striking features of his. 

Andrés was something else. Martín had been with plenty of people before, he’d done about as much as he reasonably could, but it had never been quite like that. This man, this Andrés, this gorgeous stranger he’d met in a bar on the other side of the world; he was different. And not just in his naturally commanding, imposing way; it was the way he took care of Martín, how he paid attention to everything, his movements, the sounds he made, how his body reacted. He was careful and attentive and  _ yes, _ absolutely relentless. 

They ended up in the kitchen at some point, Martín still painfully hard, confused as to why they needed to stop and get water  _ right at that second  _ instead of coming, then getting some water and going right back to fucking. And then coming again. The cold water did help, a jarring contrast to his feverishly hot skin, shocking him from the inside out. It didn’t help with his desire to  _ fucking come already, _ but he was starting to enjoy all the edging. Despite having literally no reasons to trust Andrés, it dawned on him that he did - with his orgasm, at least. 

Andrés did make him kneel right there, by the kitchen isle, and fed him his cock, shuddering at the chill still permeating his mouth. Hands in his hair, these almost dangerous growls that went straight to Martín’s cock, and he understood what was expected of him, relaxing his throat, closing his eyes and just  _ taking it. _

That didn’t last long either -  _ was the guy intent on fucking him in every corner of his house? It was, after all, a sizable apartment _ \- urging him to his feet and going straight for a kiss in that way he did, that maddening, all-consuming way he kissed. Martín was heaving for breath as he followed Andrés to the bed, sex-dazed, buzzing.

He was on Andrés’ lap, hand working on himself desperately, trying to keep some semblance of a rhythm when he saw Andrés screwing his eyes shut, as if in pain, and it occurred to him to say it. No reason behind it - he was way past rational thought at that point. So he said it. 

“I want you to come, Andrés. I want to watch you come, just-”

It was as if he raised an invisible weight off his shoulders, because the man grabbed him tight, too tight, nails digging into the skin of his back and shoulders, and picked up the pace. His grunts, half moans, his labored breathing, and the look on his face, so open in wonder, it was all just enough for Martín to finally let go. He came between their bodies with a near sob, Andrés stealing the breath right off his lips as he buried himself deeper a couple more times and stilled, shuddering. They rode the last of the aftershocks locked in a kiss, wet and sticky and full of a meaning that Martín could not quite grasp. 

Andrés scooped Martín closer to him, wrapping himself around his side, gripping him tightly, Martín’s head tucked under his chin. He seemed on the verge of saying something, something impossible and inappropriate and just  _ wrong _ , but never did. The tension of the unsaid words dissipated as Andrés drifted to sleep, his body getting heavier and heavier until he relaxed into rhythmic breaths. 

For some strange reason, Martín couldn’t fall asleep. Something about that night, about that whole encounter felt oddly significant, though he couldn’t understand exactly why. At times, he could swear the softness in Andrés’ eyes could be misinterpreted as love, misplaced as it may have been since they barely met. And then it was the maddening way in which Andrés seemed to know exactly how to move and when, how he guessed with pinpoint accuracy some of his most sensitive spots. It was curious. 

He was intrigued.

Andrés, as it turned out, slept like the dead. It’s as if he’d shut off for the night; not even a grunt of protest, nor a move of one muscle when Martín fought to extricate himself from under the arm splayed over him. 

He was reasonably sure the man on the bed would not wake, but he was still jumpy when he rummaged through the clothes on the floor, picking through until he found Andrés’ trousers, rifling through them and fishing out his wallet. Andrés de Fonollosa, his ID and credit cards confirmed. So he hadn’t been lying about that, at least. There were no business cards or anything else that could indicate his actual occupation.  _ Entrepreneur my ass, _ Martín thought. He knew a fellow criminal when he met one, and Andrés was undoubtedly a good one.

Martín looked once more at Andrés and something took over him, something mischievous. It was illogical; there was hardly any reasoning behind his actions, but that didn’t stop him. He rifled through the mess on the floor until he found the discarded belt. Were he a better person, he’d fight that irrational instinct he had - but he wasn’t.

He looked back behind his shoulder, at the man sleeping on the bed, his heart tightening just a bit with an out of place pang of regret before stepping out and closing the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on [ Tumblr](https://dormarunt.tumblr.com/) about these brilliant Time Husbands!


	4. Cartesian Coordinates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín snores.
> 
> j/k - Martín proves to be more of a match than Andrés thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, kids, this is going to be a _wild_ ride!

Andrés could only laugh as he was massaging his sore shoulders. Getting out of the rudimentary tie Martín had fashioned out of his belt was a breeze, he’d almost be offended at the attempt if he wasn’t so fucking amused by it. To top it off, his watch was missing. So Martín had tied him to the bed, stole his watch and left in the dead of night. 

And Andrés had felt none of that. Maybe the jump was taking its toll on him, after all.

Or maybe it had been the rather vigorous exercise he’d gotten. 

The Day After was strange. He had met Martín; it was done. Their first touch, their first kiss, their first fuck. All of it happened, and he’d let it happen the way it did. He wouldn’t change a thing. Because he now had fresh memories of Martín,  _ real _ memories, and he had facts about him, he had knowledge. As much knowledge he could get with their singularly-tracked mind, so not a whole lot, but Andrés still had slivers of information, intriguing things that rounded Martín into a real person. He was real. He had been real all along, but knowing it for sure? 

Andrés could not stop smiling. 

Is that what it was like to be really, truly happy? Surely the endorphins were gone by the morning. This wasn’t chemistry or biology, this was sentiment. And it was grand; Andrés  _ loved _ . He was in love. Completely irreversibly and quite inexplicably in love.

Even that, the way Martín made his exit. He honestly loved it. 

In love with Martín, who- Andrés had this strange feeling that he instantly went to check. He found his discarded trousers on the floor, picked them up to look through the pockets and. Yes. His wallet was gone too. 

What an exit.

Andrés looked at the clock in the kitchen; just a little past nine in the morning. Maybe enough time to go to the hotel and catch Martín before he left. But he didn’t want to take the easy route, not really. All that, what Martín had done. It was a message - awkwardly phrased, sure, but a clear message nonetheless. It said, “find me”.

So Andrés would. Always.

He realized that he'd gladly spend the rest of his lives chasing Martín, no other purpose to his existence, and he'd be grateful for the opportunity.

*

Buenos Aires was beautiful. All the more now, knowing that it had Martín. That it contained Martín, that it had made Martín into who he was. Gods, he could not tire of thinking his name, of the smile it always put on his face when he did. 

“Martín Berrote, yes. Civil Engineering.”

“Of course, sir, just a second.”

The University of Buenos Aires was a really good one, but their staff? So  _ helpful _ , giving Andrés all Martín’s information just like that, based only on confident words and a freshly printed business card. 

Andrés stopped for a while on a bench outside the dorm where he knew Martín would be, trying to calm his nerves. He was nervous. Him, who never even trembled before pressing the trigger. Him, who had killed people with his bare hands, had watched the light flicker out of so many eyes. Who still had moments when he couldn’t get the stench of death from the back of his throat, no matter what body he was in. Him, who had been captured, tortured, hurt in all the ways a human body could. He was nervous about talking to a guy. Such an immature reaction; Andrés marveled at the myriad of feelings he was discovering within himself.

That night they spent together had been remarkable. Not just in the very basic, carnal sense, but in the fact that Andrés’ mind kept remembering. Memories kept pouring out of him, flashes of a lifetime long erased slipping into his present, the Martín of long ago blurring with the one in his arms. It was unnerving, having so much love, so much veneration for someone he barely even knew - consciously, at least. 

Martín opened the door with a beer in his hand and a smile on his face, which instantly faded as he laid eyes on Andrés.

“Andrés.”

“Martín.”

Andrés tried to reign in the smile that he flashed the second he laid his eyes on Martín again. He brushed past him, stepping into the small room.

“How did you- No, wait. Did you come all this way to get back your couple hundred Euros and change? Oh, by all means, make yourself at home.” He quipped, as Andrés walked past him and into his room. 

“So, um. Are you here for your wallet? Because I’m sure the plane ticket was way more expensive than what you had in it.”

“And the watch. It really suits you, by the way.”

“Yeah, and the watch. Thanks. But overall, you made a pretty bad deal.”

“Did I now.” Andrés looked around the room, barely catching a glimpse of a few shiny flashes on the mattress before Martín threw the sheet over them, carelessly resting his beer on a shelf. “Why did you steal them?”

“I needed money for the cab fare back?”

Andrés hummed, approaching Martín.

“Impulse?” Martín tried again, hopeful.

“I’m not saying I don’t buy that, but I don’t buy that.”

“Maybe I wanted you to find me.”

“Right. And you couldn’t have just, say, given me your number? I believe it’s what people do.”

“It is customary, yes. But would you have called me?”

“Yes.” Andrés replied, no hint of hesitation in his voice. 

“Is it bad that I choose to believe you?”

_ Not at all,  _ Andrés thought, stepping close enough to gently grab Martín’s face and leaned it to capture his lips with his own. Then his brain caught up with him, and let go of Martín, because he had finally placed one of the shiny flashes he’d seen on the mattress. With a quick pull, he removed the sheet from the bed, revealing a jumbled mess of wires and boxes and other bits and bobs that could only be--

“Martín?” He breathed deeply, an undercurrent of danger overtaking him. “Is that a bomb?” He asked in a clear, calm voice, not taking his eyes off Martín as he spoke. 

“No?” 

“Martín. That’s a bomb.”

“Well technically, it’s not a bomb  _ yet _ . It’s just the components to build a--”

“What are you planning to do, Martín?”

He couldn’t stop saying his name. Martín. Martín, what the  _ fuck _ . Martín, stop. Stop it, Martín, whatever it is that you’re doing; this is not only  _ not right _ , this is also very, very wrong.

“Well, me, nothing in particular. It’s for some, em, friends.”

“Friends.”

“Business partners?”

“Terrorists.”

“Come on, Andrés. They’re not terrorists.”

“Do they plan to use that bomb?”

“I assume so.”

“And what peaceful use of a, basically, black-market explosive device can you think of, these days?”

“Look, I don’t need you to judge me. I don’t need you to intervene or get involved. This is a one-time thing, they don’t even know my name, and-”

“They know your name.” Andrés closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He breathed deeply. “Martín, don’t be stupid. Even if, by some miracle, they don’t know your name  _ now, _ they can find it out in seconds. Who’s your contact?”

“Julio. You know, the curly one from the bar.”

“Fuck. And how exactly do you imagine that they - whoever they are - can’t find you in a hot second? Or the police, for that matter. How did you graduate first in your year while being so… careless?”

“Fuck you. They don’t teach illegal affairs at the university.”

“God.” Andrés felt sick. “When do you have to hand it over?”

“This Friday.”

“Martín, you’re an idiot of cosmic proportions. Right. Here’s what you’ll do. First of all, you are not delivering that bomb. In fact, I suggest you take it apart as best you can and dispose of any evidence that you have ever built it. Second, we’re getting out of Buenos Aires tonight. I’m sorry but there’s no time to say goodbye to your family, and it’s probably wise that you don’t contact them for a while either.”

“That’s alright, it’s not like they’ll notice that I’m gone.”

Andrés stopped, looked at him. Though Martín tried to appear detached, hiding the pain from his eyes, it was still apparent, and Andrés wanted so badly to hold him, to protect him and ensure that nothing wrong happened to him ever again. It was wild, the sheer intensity of his feelings, so deeply rooted even if he was barely discovering Martín.

“Yeah, no.” Martín continued. “My family disowned me after my first year in Uni, and after my second arrest they cut all ties.” Andrés made a note to inquire more about Martín’s past. It seemed that he was hiding way more than he let up. 

“You’ll have to tell me how you got caught up in this,” Andrés said, looking through his phone for a certain contact. “Pack only the necessary things, get all the cash you have. Give me your ID, passport; whatever you have with your face on it. I’ll be back in the evening. But first, dispose of that thing. Talk to absolutely no one, don’t answer the phone, don’t answer the door. In fact. Give me a key.”

Ever since he stepped in Martín’s small room he realized that something felt off. Undoubtedly, it was his training catching up on some temporal anomalies, even though he didn’t consciously realize it at first. But that’s what they were: out of time events; whatever it was that Martín had gotten involved with, it was not supposed to happen. Which, in itself, was remarkable, because ever since Andrés stopped working for the Agency, ever since he stopped getting cliff-notes of future events, he had no way of knowing what any particular timeline was supposed to look like. 

But that? That felt very  _ wrong _ , and Andrés had a feeling it had been his actual presence that brought about the changes in the timeline.

Later on, when he returned with a couple of forged IDs, Andrés sat Martín down to get the whole story.

It wasn’t petty theft like he initially thought, waking up without his watch and wallet. It was grand larceny. A collector’s home at first, then a jewelry store with a small group of colleagues. Martín was only involved in the planning part, that’s why he got off so easily. But the bomb was new even for Martín, who happened to be recruited by Julio. Julio, who’d gotten mixed with a dubious gang of individuals and reverted to Martín’s expertise with, and passion for, explosives. Martín confessed that he had refused to help Julio before, but after graduation something changed and he relented. He felt almost small as he spoke to Andrés, clearly still holding a few things back. Andrés didn’t press further, urging him out the door. They had a plane to catch.

“If you’re really keen on taking this path,” Andrés said before the lights went off on the plane, “then I can help you. I can teach you. If it’s planning you’re interested in, you’ll love my brother.”

*

Andrés was selfish. Selfish because he didn’t want to introduce Martín to Sergio just yet, intent on keeping him to himself, for as long as he could. They barely got out of the house for the first few days they were back in Madrid. The neighbors did complain at one point. 

Andrés was also very much in love with Martín. And he thought it would take longer for Martín to share his feelings, much longer, but it didn’t. Love settled into Martín as easy as one-two-three.

One week for Andrés to say  _ I love you. _

Two more days for Martín to say it back.

Three weeks to really mean it.

He woke up before Martín did, and watched him snore softly from where he was nestled between the pillows. That smile again, the one Andrés still couldn’t tame, at the thought of his name, it kept painting itself on his face whenever he watched Martín. 

Breakfast in bed. He’d make Martín breakfast in bed, he’d fuck him again - bless his young body - and then maybe, just maybe, they’d go out. Meet with Sergio even. Andrés slipped out of the bed, quietly closed the bedroom door behind him and walked towards the kitchen. 

*****

The Agent looked at the lot of new recruits, trying to push down on the anger that was bubbling inside him. Those poor fuckers had no idea what lay in store for them. 

He remembered his own first day - the first day that he’d regained the ability to form memories - and the whole thing, this awful display included, filled him with silent rage.

The first thing they did to new recruits, after implanting the print of the brain they had copied, was to wipe their memories clean. Yes, the Agency picked out specific people, copied their brain patterns, inserted them into a new host body at the Temporal Agency HQ, and the first thing they did to those brains, brains that they'd deemed so out of the ordinary that they had to be fucking copied,  _ was to wipe them clean. _ They wiped everything, not just stuff like who they were or where they were from; everything they’ve ever known, everything they’ve ever done, down to necessary stuff, like how to speak or how to feed themselves. It was all gone.

Then, when they were just blank slates, they made a series of minutiae adjustments to their neural pathways - a proprietary technology, as the Agency often boasted - that gave the recruits the ability to travel through time without the aid of any outside technology, anything that could be lost or that could appear anachronistic.

Only then did they upload a new batch of information in their clean, malleable brains, making them Persons, once again. 

Then came the training.

And then came the missions, the jumps, and the kills. The Agency's way to preserve the timeline 'clean' was awfully dirty, since murdering the inconvenient people was their panacea. 

The lot of recruits - five generic-looking young men - were as confused-looking as he had been on his first day. They were at the state right after the memory wipe; just human vessels, waiting to be jump-started. To be shaped into Temporal Agents.

They’ve done nothing wrong; that was the thing that he hated the most. All they did was to have exceptional minds, the kind of brains the Agency discovered were able to withstand their neural adjustments. It was not personal. It was just physiology. Someone stole their right to have normal lives just because of physiology, and doomed them to whole new life of obedient murder.

The Agent had had enough. He turned on his heels and walked away from the viewing window, heading for the room at the end of the hall, housing the modulators. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a very clear naming system for the chapters, but that’s when there were, like, only 3 of them. Kindly gloss over them and trust that Martin, the brilliant engineer that he is, knows what they’re all about and how _perfectly_ they fit, okay?
> 
> Also come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dormarunt)! :D We can discuss theories and such <3


	5. Geometry of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **warning** for *plot twist* (it's in the tags)
> 
> TL;DR - Martín does _not_ get that breakfast in bed.
> 
> ~ And then there were two - and the chase continues ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out who the Agent was in the end of the last part. Things get slightly more complicated.

"Here goes nothing."

The Agent had taken a look at the code for the modulators, the ones they used to heal their neural pathways after jumps, and he was fairly confident that he understood it. He uploaded his own code to the machine, sat in the chair and pushed the button.

Fifteen minutes later, he woke up again.

He woke up, which was nice enough to begin with. There had been a pretty good chance he'd fucked it up, in which case- Well, it wouldn't have mattered anyways, he'd be dead. But this was the most favorable outcome, so he was pleased. Proud, even. But, overall, relieved. He could escape the Temporal Agency; the relentless killing, the manipulations. 

He was free now; untraceable, completely unseen to the Agency and all other Agents. 

He deleted his code from the modulator, erased any trace that he'd used it, then settled his mind enough to jump. He knew precisely where he'd go. Someone had been very careless - okay, someone had gotten some 'help' to become careless - and he had found his own recruitment file.

So he went to the safest place there was - in his own body. 

The second his consciousness came online, Martín doubled over and puked violently. 

He took a few seconds to assess his bearings - and to gingerly remove the vomit-soaked sheets - and wondered if the visceral reaction of his body was due to the changes he’d made in the code or due to the fact that he had jumped into a version of his own body - a taboo held most sacred by all Agents. 

Everything felt strange about the jump; it seemed to take him longer than usual to access his host's memories - Martín’s memories - even after he reached for a mirror to jump-start the process. But no, all he saw in the mirror was a slightly younger version of the headshot he’s found on his file. He was in his mid twenties, if he were to guess. But other than that, nothing came back.

Until he sensed it. Undeniable, bold, terrifying - there was another Agent present. Really, really close by, too. Martín panicked; how could they find him so quickly? He’d been sure he hadn’t left a trace, and this was near-instantaneous. It didn’t matter how, all that mattered was that they’d found him. And they were getting closer. Martín looked around the room, trying really hard to remember, and he began to feel blindly under the furniture hopefully. Instinctually. 

Good old instincts never disappointed in times like that; his lizard brain reverted into fight mode and he found, taped under the rim of the coffee table, a gun. He gripped it tightly, the current of time distortion growing closer with the steps that were just outside his door. A small pause, some shuffling, and the door was pushed open, hiding Martín from view. He took one step forward and squeezed the trigger on an exhale; close range, center mass. Instant kill. 

The feeling of otherness dissipated as Martín saw the body falling to the floor with a clang of wood and glass; the man was barely gasping for air. All his host’s memories flooded back in Martín's brain at the same time, in that very instant when looking at the face of the man drawing his last breaths at his feet.

Martín dropped to his knees, gun slipping from his grasp. It didn’t make sense. 

Nothing made sense. 

That was Andrés. That was his - his host’s? _His_. His lover. His partner. His everything.

But he was dead. 

Definitely not a Temporal Agent. 

He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up big. 

He retched again, right by the pool of blood that was growing by his feet, growing numb, growing insane by the second. Fuck. 

Maybe he _had_ fucked up the code. 

Even though it was way too early to attempt a jump, he tried to collect himself enough to do so. It was hard, because Andrés was there. He was there and he wasn’t, not his Andrés. Just his body. He’d have to find him again and make it right.

It took more power than he thought he had in him, but he did it. He jumped. 

***

A month had passed since Andrés woke up in that place. He’d died, so a new cycle started - random time, random place, random body. 

He hated it. He hated this new body, with all his memories, with his life and his problems. With his family. They were actually nice but they had done nothing to deserve this new detachedness from him. The only good thing was that he wouldn’t be there for long. 

And he still couldn’t get the taste of blood out of his mouth. 

No matter how hard he tried to remember, to piece things together in a way that they made sense, everything felt wrong. The last thing he remembered was preparing breakfast then going back to their room. He’d heard nothing, not a single sound that could have announced an intruder. Had they hurt Martín? He hated the thought; unable to accept that something happened to Martín while he was right there, just a couple of meters away. 

Andrés saw that their bed was empty and the next second he was on the floor, bleeding. Dying. A close-contact shot, he died before getting a chance to turn and see who was on the other end of that barrel. 

Everything had such a strange feeling about it, and Andrés would swear the Agency was involved somehow, were it not for the fact that he’d felt no other Agents present. 

Either way, Andrés’ body in that timeline was gone. There was a good chance Martín was dead as well. He felt sick just thinking about it, but it was a very real possibility. He didn’t dare jump back into the same timeline to try and stop things - doing it once was risky enough - so he searched for other timelines which contained an Andrés de Fonollosa. When he finally found one, after being well enough to make a jump, he did.

***

The best time for an Agent to inject their consciousness into a new body, the training said, was at night. They stood the best chance of the host being asleep and the transfer happening organically, without much disruption.

Well, not this time, as when his consciousness came online, instead of the pitch darkness he was expecting, there was light. And motion. He was apparently plowing some redhead. 

As much as the sight may have pleased him, the time-lag from the jump made him stop, abruptly. He tried to catch his breath, the fuzz of vertigo threatening to make him spill his guts. Deep breaths; in through the nose, out through the mouth.

“Andrés? Are you alright, love?” The redhead inquired, her pleasure long forgotten and morphing into worry. 

“I’m sorry, I think- I think I need to lay down for a moment.”

So he pulled out, and more fell than sat on the bed beside her. It only took a couple of seconds before the host Andrés’ memories properly fused with his own, and when he had full access to them he closed his eyes to assess what was going on. Apparently the woman was Tatiana, his wife. _Oh good, a wife._ He remembered their wedding, just a couple of days ago. And then he remembered that Martín was also there. He smiled, suddenly relieved. Martín was there too; he’d found him once again.

Tatiana was looking at him with concern.

“Is it the treatment? Should we schedule an appointment with doctor Tomasso?”

Treatment? Oh. Andrés remembered. Helmer's myopathy. The Andrés in this particular timeline, the poor fucker, had certainly lost the genetic lottery. Three years. 

He had three years left - but Martín was already there. 

His heart almost broke when he saw Martín at breakfast the next morning. It broke because he couldn't do anything of what he really wanted to. He couldn't scoop him in his arms, just to feel his touch once more. He couldn't tell Martín how much he'd missed him. How glad he was to see him again. He could do neither of those things.

He could only watch, let himself be pulled forward by this Andrés. This strange creature he found himself to be this time around. It was still him, who he always was, who he'd always be; still him, but so much more. There was anger and self hatred, and there was also a strange current verging on madness in his thoughts, in his actions.

But Martín was- He was Martín. Bright, warm, and just as filled with potential as before. Wicked smart. They'd met nearly a decade ago and Martín had followed him since. He'd been by his side through thick and thin, always his rock, his second tether alongside his brother. But they'd grown, they'd all grown so much. Sergio had almost completed his plan with the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre, a true masterpiece. Martín had come up with a jewel of a plan of his own, one to rival Sergio's: to steal the gold reserves from the Banco de España. Bold, mad, impossible. A suicide mission, but a beautifully poetic one.

They worked together, and they worked so well, this unspoken understanding of theirs. It was dance, a beautiful pas de deux.

It was unfair. It was wrong. Martín, Andrés, and his wife. His many girlfriends, many wives. Now that he’d seen Martín in love, he could recognize that look on his face anywhere. Because Martín was in love with him. And Andrés, the one he'd replaced, well. He wasn't. He’d had Sergio, of all people, tell him that Martín was in love with him, and him? He didn’t quite believe it. He’d hurt Martín so much, he was still hurting him. As if he was feeding off that pain he was pretending he didn’t cause.

This wasn’t going to work. There was too much hurt to heal and Andrés didn’t think he had it in him to fix it. Didn’t know what it would take to make it right. Didn’t know if it was even worth trying.

Three years. 

Three years and he’d die. And it wouldn’t be a pretty, dignified death. It would be meaningless and ugly, it would slowly destroy him, and with him, it would destroy those that loved him. More hurt for Martín - Andrés couldn’t see the future but still knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Martín would be the one to stay with him until the very end. And he didn’t deserve any more of this pain. He deserved all the good things, and this Andrés was none of those. 

He decided to jump again, to find another version of Andrés. Another Martín. To start clean, to do it right.

Andrés didn’t know the madness that overtook him that evening. He wanted to leave that timeline, but before that, he had to- he had to say it. He had to hear it one more time. He didn’t know what he wanted, all he knew was that he got in motion some events that should not have happened, not like that, not then. And he started it by asking for a compliment. 

“How do I look?”

And Martín, his Martín. Caged feelings, so used to be invisible in precisely the way he wanted to be seen. He was thrown leftovers and he took them, gratefully, with no spite. Honest and modest in his feelings. Andrés didn’t deserve to be called powerful, nor beautiful. He was the ugly version of the man Martín loved, how could he not see that?

Martín put a bottle of wine on the table, by two empty glasses; his counteroffer to Andrés’ request for him to put his feelings out in the open. And those glasses, their presence, the fact that Martín had been waiting for him, he planned for them to drink together- Andrés was included in all of Martín’s plans, and yet here Andrés was. Going to dinner with his fucking wife. 

The meaning behind those twin glasses felt like salt on a fresh cut, but it still didn’t hurt as much as the ease with which Martín accepted the fact that Andrés, he wouldn’t be thinking of him. This Andrés, this damaged version of himself, he wouldn’t - couldn’t? - be who Martín needed. But the ease with which Martín took the rejection; it settled deep into his chest, a stack of stones smothering his heart. 

And no, Andrés couldn’t do this anymore. 

“You think that I don’t love you? I feel it too. There’s something between us, something extraordinary, unique, marvelous. And I know love, I’ve been married five times.”

He couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t.

“What I never told you is that… none of those women made me feel something even remotely similar to what I have with you. Not even close.”

He couldn’t stop. But he should. This was madness. This was worse than what this version of Andrés had been doing.

“You and I are soulmates. But only 99 percent. You know, I really like women; I like them a lot. And you- you like me too much.”

And Martín, oh, Martín. He jumped at those words like a parched man would an oasis. He kissed Andrés, he kissed him and Andrés tried, really really hard to keep himself together. He was making everything worse. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t _not_ walk Martín back to the wall of the chapel, get his hands on him, cup his face in his hands, and kiss him properly. It was a perversion on that first real kiss they shared in his apartment, of that maddening infusion of emotion he felt for him. It hadn’t even been that long since they last kissed, but it was everything. It was everything he wanted to give Martín, and nothing that he should have.

“Martín… Listen, I’d give anything to feel like this but-- It’s impossible. I love you, Martín. But my brother is right, we have to part ways. And we have to abandon the plan.”

He turned around, trying to reign in his tears - he wasn’t as honest with them as Martín was; how openly he suffered, bleeding out his disappointment for all the world to see.

“I have to leave you.” And he did. “It’s- It’s for love. For our friendship. For the bond that I have with you.”

He had to get Martín away from this Andrés. It was the only way to keep him from getting hurt even deeper. 

“Now go away and heal your wounds. Sometimes distance is the only way to find peace. Goodbye, my friend. I’m confident that, one way or another, time will bring us together again.”

Andrés would make sure that would happen.

As soon as he turned the corner, he wiped the tears from his eyes. His ears were ringing, breath slowly turning into sobs, but he closed his eyes, tried his best to focus, and jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapel scene, that whole timeline - it's the one the show is set in (I decided). 
> 
> I'm also available on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dormarunt) in case I've lost anyone along the way.


	6. Intersecting Geodesics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > They were unstoppable. Really, truly unstoppable because sometimes, not even reason, not even common sense seemed to stop them from doing something so outrageous, so undeniably stupid that it somehow worked. They fed off each other in this chain-reaction/feedback-loop kind of thing, where one came up with something and the other one said, unconditionally, “yes”. “Yes and." 
> 
> Time Husbands reunited! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Shit’s GOING DOWN, and it’s going down HARD.)

Thirteen years. Thirteen unbelievable years. Had Martín known his life could be like this, he’d have fled the Agency long ago. But it was fine, he had time. Maybe not quite all the time in the world, but definitely more than enough. And he’d want to spend all of it doing precisely the same thing: being with Andrés.

That first jump into the body of Martín - his own body, it was him, such a mindfuck but it was - that jump had been wrong in the all ways it could have been, both possible and impossible. However, it brought forth one thing, a thing he could not shake since.

He’d had  _ that _ Martín’s memories for seconds, but the sheer strength of them, the way in which they were so definitive, immovable; Martín couldn’t since separate them from his mind. It was as deeply ingrained in him as his still-hard-to-shake accent, his blue eyes or his volcanic personality. He was an asshole, in this and all timelines, he was a cocky bastard, and he was in love with Andrés.

Fuck;  _ Andrés _ . It’s been years, happy years, good years, full of love, and still. He still saw the other Andrés’ body on the floor, his life dimming as the pool of blood grew around him. That Andrés; the first one that Martín had ever met. The one he’d killed. Some days the sense of guilt knotted itself like slithering snakes in his soul and he couldn’t breathe. They had been in love, that Martín and that Andrés and the Agent still lingering in him snuffed out that light. He thought that once he left the Agency, he’d leave all his callous violence behind, and yet- He started his new life with it. He couldn’t overcome it.

But Andrés made it easy. Well, not easy per se, he could be a really difficult man to love at times. But it was just  _ easy _ with them. Effortless. Soft butter, hot toast kind of easy. But that was only who they were. What they did? Well, that was a different kind of story.   


Sure, he was no saint still. And yes, he had killed since he left the Agency. But it was only necessary - truly, evidently necessary, not in an obscure, imposed way like  _ before _ . He wasn’t a good person, but he wasn’t that awful shell he’d been as an Agent. And it was all due to Andrés.

Martín fell asleep on one of the couches in the office, head in Andrés’ lap like every day since they’ve been in the Mint. And he didn’t wake up - he was woken up. Woken up by this gurgling terror inside him, screaming at him. There was an Agent present.   


Wake up,  _ wake up, _ Martín. Wake up and  _ run _ .   


His eyes flew open and he scanned the room, panic settling inside him in heaps. He sensed the Agent, he was there, right there, but there was only Andrés in the room.

Andrés, looking down at his face, silent; eyes, for a second, empty. He squeezed them shut, webbing pulling at the corner of them, and Martín remembered the first treatments, the head-splitting headaches that Andrés would get sometimes. But this wasn’t that. He knew that look, he knew  _ the feel  _ of that look. He’d felt it too. It was the memory rush that came right after a jump.

This wasn’t Andrés. This was an Agent.

Martín knew he had to react. To act. But the horror of _ that last time _ , it forced him to reign it in. He got up, slowly, then in a swift motion his hands were around Andrés’ neck, pushing him into the couch cushions. Hard enough to bruise, hard enough to warn - but not harm. Martín straddled Andrés, awkwardly on the narrow couch, pressing down on his arms.

“Why are you here.”

And the guy, this Agent who’d stolen his Andrés’ body, he looked back at him, and he looked scared, surprised even, but he didn’t fight him. So he pressed on.

“How did you find me?”   


“Martín?”

“How did you find me?” He repeated, trying to push down the nausea his time stench gave off. “Who are you?”

“Martín.” Gently, way too gentle for someone who was getting his neck nearly crushed. “Are you- Are--”

No, not again, he couldn’t do this again. No matter who this was in the mind of  _ his _ Andrés, he couldn’t do this. He unlatched his hands from around the man’s throat and got up, staggering away.

“Are you here to kill me? I can’t see how the Agency would want me back.” And it was almost poetic justice, he thought, to be killed by Andrés, this cosmic payback for what he did. He deserved it.   


“Martín, are you- No.” Andrés was sitting up on the couch, one hand brushing along the bruises starting to bloom on his throat. “But I don’t- I can’t feel you. How are you doing this?”

Martín looked at him, his anger contrasting with the sense of wonder in Andrés’s eyes, standing up and approaching him. They studied each other, waiting for the other to say something, waiting for a way to get out of that pit. It was  _ his _ Andrés, and so obviously not him.   


“I’ve been looking for you for so long.” Andrés said, completely out of leftfield, a wall of emotion visibly crashing down, his shoulders sagging. “I’ve- I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve both lost and left you behind. But- I’d always find you.” Then he started to shake his head, looking at him, pleading. “How? Are you an Agent, Martín? Have you always- When?”

There were too many questions. Too little time.   


_ ‘I’ve hurt you’ _ , the man had said, and Martín almost wanted to laugh. I’ve  _ killed  _ you.

“Guys, break’s over. The Professor’s due to call in fifteen minutes.”

Martín hadn’t even heard the door open. He nodded, back still to the door.   


“Let’s go. We’ll talk later.”

Martín retreated to the loading dock to have a smoke, trying to pull himself together. The heist was hurtling towards the end in the Mint, more than a few things having gone wrong in a way that not even the Professor had foreseen. Tensions were high, the hostages were tired and fidgety, the powder keg that was the tent threatening to blow at any moment. And most of the team were running on fumes, choosing to bicker and fight and have nervous fucking breakdowns, putting even more strain on the precarious balance of their operation. They needed calm, they needed direction, they needed a leader - except, at that moment, Martín knew he was in no shape to provide that leadership.   


Everything seemed to be going to shit in quite a spectacular fashion, both with the heist and with his personal life. An Agent had taken over Andrés; this strange, nonsense-spewing  _ thing _ that spoke of love and hurting, and didn’t, for some reason, want to kill Martín. He’d watched him and he didn’t seem intent on fucking things up with the heist either. Another loose canon, as far as Martín was concerned.

Either way, it was not the day Martín wanted to die, either at the hands of some Agent or at those of the police. He was still not sure whether being killed and having to start a new cycle in a new body made him traceable by the Agency, and he really wasn’t in any mood to find out. So, whatever happened, he needed to calm the fuck down, maybe meditate a bit, center himself and go back in full Palermo mode. That whole circus needed a ring leader so he had to step up.

  
Martín felt the current of time distortion well before he saw Andrés - or rather, Berlín, especially inside the Mint - come round the corner. That day, that  _ fucking _ day.

“I thought I’d find you here.” He pulled a cigarette from his pack, patting his pockets for the lighter. Martín handed him his own, and Berlín lit his cigarette, drawing a hungry breath, smoke curling out his nose in a sigh.

“So.”

Said the worst possible  _ thing _ , at the worst possible time.   


“So.” Martín echoed.

“Why did you think the Agency sent me? To kill you.”

“Wow you go straight to the point, don’t you?” And it wasn’t Martín who spoke, simply because that wasn’t Andrés he was talking to. “I’m sure you understand my apprehension to give too many details.”   


He let the sentence hang in the air, knowing full-well - a thing he’d learned from Andrés, like so many others - that silence begs to be filled. And this guy, this facsimile of Andrés seemed like the type to launch into unprovoked confessions, given his previous rambling rant. That ‘ _ I’ve hurt you _ ’ still echoed through Martín’s head, a thorn burying itself deeper into his guilt.

“I retired. The Agency no longer follows my movements.”

Retired? Martín couldn’t hide his surprise. The Agent had gone through  _ all of it?  _ He almost felt like laughing, knowing he was no longer the worst man in the room.

“But there was this thing-” The man studied his cigarette for a second, as if it was able to give him the words he was looking for. “The wipe? You know the wipe.” Martín knew it all too well. He nodded. “I don’t think it really worked on me. I could still... Remember things. Not actual memories, more like spectres of emotions, this strange certainty, this. This permeating sensation that I had to find someone. This person.” He stopped, sucking one last breath out of the cigarette before tossing it, unfinished, on the floor and squishing it under foot.   


“I jumped aimlessly at first, but then I began to look for the timelines that contained those memories. I could feel it, you see? I could feel when I was in the right timeline, and then- Then I found him. The person in my memories. I found him. And I think; no, I  _ know _ this was my initial life. Andrés de Fonollosa; the brain they copied. I was always Andrés de Fonollosa.”

Well, shit. The nightmare would never end, would it? Just like the false awakenings of lucid dreaming, torturing him to remain trapped in the ugly world of the Agency, of all his crimes. And this guy, this not-Andrés, he showed up to drag him back to that particular hell.   


Martín was smart enough to piece together the rest of the Agent’s story. At last he managed to pull Palermo out, so Martín took a deep breath, wearing his persona like a shield as he asked,

“Who was he? Who was the per-”

He didn’t get to hear the answer and instead tasted it on Berlín’s lips, crashing into his own. Martín wanted to break away, to push him and hit him, because no, it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. But the man didn’t let up, cupping his head, pulling him closer, everything about the kiss devastatingly familiar.   


“No.” Martín did push him away. “No.” He sounded petulant, angry. “What the fuck?”

“Martín.” The man shrugged, the depths of emotion visible in his eyes. “I knew from the second I saw you. That first time as well as the next. This time as well.” He added. “I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been looking for you since before I knew it was you who I was looking for.”

Martín kept shaking his head, as if his denial to accept the words made them less true. Andrés looked down, pushing the cigarette away.

“Have you always been an agent?” The man asked.

“How can I possibly answer that.”

“Right. I mean, fuck. But why can’t I feel you? An Agent that leaves no trace. And the Agency doesn’t know you’re here. How did you do that?”

Maybe it was reckless to confess, but the man already knew that he was an Agent. The rest of the details would come out eventually.

“I found my recruitment file, altered the code in a modulator to make myself untraceable, then deleted the code. I jumped into my own body.” He stopped before mentioning the next thing, the important thing - _ and the first thing I did after the jump was to put a bullet in your back. _

Nairobi’s voice sounded in their ears _. “Berlín, Palermo. To the offices por favor.” _ Then, after a short break, the static started again.  _ “And, Palermo? Nobody needs to know what you guys were doing; just get here.” _

They both smiled, genuine, a bit guilty, cutting through the murky tension for just a second.   


“This is too big a conversation for- well. In itself and in this particular moment. Later. Now we need to end this thing and we need to do it right.” 

***

Martín was talking to Nairobi, and Andrés went to one of the adjacent offices. Too much was going on, and he needed to calm down, to think. What with his talk with Martín, and the access to his host body’s memories, there was so much information that he couldn’t focus on any one thing. 

  
The memories he now had such easy access to, they were calling to him, and it was really, really hard to push them away. Especially since lines were blurring now, the tear-filled face of Martín, the last thing he saw before he jumped here, melding into the happy face of Martín, this Martín, in the same chapel, on a similar night, but with tears brought forth by happiness. It was entirely too much information to unpack, to parse, and he needed to focus on the heist. They were mere hours away from being free, it was an absolutely critical moment and he couldn’t fucking focus.

He felt stunted, and the only solution he could come up with was a cheat. Good thing he wasn’t above cheating, Andrés. The only way out of his mind, he decided, was to take a small jump ahead to see what was happening in the Mint later. Just a sneak peek. Just enough to help his brain get on the right track, because, as things stood, he was useless. What with the influx of memories seeping to the forefront of his memories, he could not be Berlín, the Berlín the heist needed, the Berlín that got everybody out. So he’d have to jump.

He looked around the small room and sat down against a wall, trying to center himself. But instead of the controlled calm he always managed to get rooted in before a jump, his mind wandered. It wandered through the beautiful scenery that was this Martín and Andrés’ lives, so he finally relented, allowing himself a few moments to simply bask.

This Andrés, what a lucky bastard. He had Martín for thirteen years.   


The two of them worked beautifully as a team. They were unstoppable. Really, truly unstoppable because sometimes, not even reason, not even common sense seemed to stop them from doing something so  _ outrageous _ , so undeniably  _ stupid _ that it somehow worked. They fed off each other in this chain-reaction/feedback-loop kind of thing, where one came up with something and the other one said, unconditionally, “yes”. “Yes and”.

Andrés saw themselves, the ones in this timeline and their own version of their first encounter. How it was Martín who pursued him after that. He saw how, as the years passed, Martín morphed from cocky into effortlessly confident. Andrés also saw the time he allowed himself to be captured just so Martín had time to escape, how he ended up in prison and how he never regretted it for a second. He also saw their time at the monastery, working on their plan. Their wedding. Andrés looked at his left hand, the faint indent on his ring finger still visible.   


That was it, that was the future he hoped he’d get with Martín.  _ His _ Martín, or at least his first one. Was he even alive? Had he forgotten all about Andrés? He wouldn’t get to find out, and it  _ ached _ . He decided to not think about that any longer. This was the future they should have had, this one right here; the one they never got to live.

So he owed it to this Martín - this Agent, who was still Martín - he owed it to him, to the both of them to get everyone out alive.   


Nobody else would die on his watch.

He finally managed to get in that headspace, the calm and flowy one, the one right before the jump. Two hours, he’d jump ahead two hours, and get a leg up on whatever was happening to compensate for how his mind was fucking useless for the moment. So he breathed in, and out, in again, and on an exhale, he tried to jump.

Except there wasn’t anything there. He couldn’t. There was nothing, not darkness, not the absence of darkness. There was just- nothing.

He opened his eyes, swallowed hard, and understood. He wouldn’t be alive in two hours.   


He had to find Martín.

He got up, radioed for Martín - Palermo - and went to meet him in one of the corridors. Martín didn’t even have the chance to get close enough before Andrés started to talk. Probably unwise, but time was short - shorter than anyone had thought - so some corners had to be cut.

“We need to stop the presses much sooner. Now; we need to stop them now and leave.

“What happened?”

“I tried to take a jump forward, just a couple of hours ahead, and there was nothing.”   
  
Martín approached a couple more steps, tilting his head before he spoke. 

  
“What do you mean there was nothing?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t jump. I’m pretty sure this means that this Andrés is dead within the next two hours.”

Andrés could almost read the choice swear word on Martín’s face, but instead he took a breath, held it, then said just, “Fuck.”

“I’ll contact Sergio. You go talk to Nairobi. We’re getting out.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dormarunt)! <3


	7. The Nature of Lines in Spherical Geometry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only happy thing about Martín was his trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh. Warning for some pretty graphic description of violence towards the end. And angst, and pain.

They didn’t have hours to escape, so they acted like they had mere minutes. Andrés contacted Sergio, who reluctantly accepted his plea to stop the presses and to get out of the Mint immediately. 

They did.

They managed to get out before the CNI barged in, and not another person died.

It would be hours until they were truly free, but at least they were alive.

It would be hours, still, until they were safe, but at least they had each other.

It would be hours until they reached land and everyone else had retired to their quarters in the underbelly of the boat. Even Helsinki eventually pushed his arms against the railing and headed to bed, leaving only Andrés and him on the deck. Truth was, nobody would fall asleep, not for a while at least. Their bodies were yet to catch up with the magnitude of their endeavor, brains still wired, soaking in chemicals.

That didn’t mean they weren’t tired. 

Fog, it was like walking through thick fog, lumbering and lost, and his mind felt no differently. Martín blinked a few times, hypnotized by the flickers of light carried by lazy waves. It would be hours until land, and he didn’t want to go to their quarters. 

Andrés was there, right by his side, having inched closer as the wind started to bite more and more. It would be hours until they made land, and Martín was yet to say it.

The weight of the actions, of the words themselves, it hung heavily on Martín’s shoulders, seeping in his bones. It was pushing and pulling, drawing him down, through the deck floor, squeezing through the hull, lower and lower to the seabed. He had to say it, but he was tired. Tired and wired. He knew it was all in his head, chemistry in action, something Martín remembered all too well since his time with the Agency. It occurred to him, only then, that even when he was free to choose a path in life, he consciously made the decision to chase the same kind of high. 

“Martín.”

Pleading.

Not _his_ Andrés. Still- his voice, his face, his expressions, everything about him. But not him. Him, _and_ . Him and an Agent. His Andrés was still in there, but so was the Agent. Martín tried really hard to see him as more than a _thing_ , like the way he saw all Agents, but it wasn’t easy. He knew how it felt. That man had the best of Andrés and the worst of Martín. 

He had to say it.

Andrés leaned closer, wrapping his arms around Martín, and that somehow ran even more chills through him. He didn’t mean to push him away like he did when Andrés tried to kiss him, he didn’t mean to lean into his anger like that. The anger wasn’t for Andrés, it was for himself.

“You can’t fault me for not knowing you.” A stilted apology. “You don’t know me either. He didn’t know me, not all of it. _You_ don’t--”

But that wasn’t the point. 

“There’s something I have to tell you.” He couldn’t bring himself to look Andrés in the eye, hard as he tried. “It’s. It’s probably the worst thing I’ve ever done - and that means a lot, knowing what I did. What we both did.”

The both of them. But only one was worse. Martín swallowed past the knot in his throat. 

“My first jump after messing with the code, when I woke up in Martín’s body? I felt an Agent closeby- And. I panicked, Andrés, do you understand? I freaked out, thinking that they’d found me. And I--”

“You shot him, didn’t you?” The words cut. Differently than they would have, had they come from himself.

The arms around him squeezed him closer, Andrés’ head pressed against his. This, this is where the anger was expected, understandable even. But no. Andrés- There he was, comforting the man who had killed him. 

“That was the first time that I found you. That I found _Martín_ . He had this- this light inside him. I knew from the first moment I saw him that he was the one I had been remembering all that time. He was with me from the beginning; through every mission, every jump and every new cycle. Grounding me, reminding me that no matter how bad a day it was, it still meant that I was one day closer to being free, to finding him again. And I did. I found him. I found you. And you’ve had this spark in you _every. single. time.”_

Andrés spoke, but Martín wasn’t entirely there. He’d gotten lost on a tangent, wondering what would one customarily say in his situation. ‘I’m sorry I killed you?’ He wondered wildly whether they made cards for this occasion. And why not? It would make as much sense as Andrés’ reaction, anyway. He sighed, the breath leaving his body bringing him back into the moment.

“How did you know?”

“I always suspected the Agency was somehow involved in that. But I didn’t feel an Agent at the time, and you are the only one that can do that. That, and the way you’ve been acting around me. I can understand anger, I can understand disgust - believe me, I can. But guilt? There could only be one reason you’d feel guilty around me.”

“And-” _‘And how does that make you feel?’_ quietly supplies the therapist in Martín’s head, the one he saw precisely once before deciding there was no way in hell he could speak to a regular person about his issues.

“And I’m angry.”

He didn’t look angry. He looked tired, a tiredness to match Martín’s. A tiredness wide as the sea, and Martín understood. 

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. As soon as we reach our safehouse.”

  
It was hours until they reached land, and Martín wasn’t the one to say it.

But it was out. 

He felt no lighter.

  
At least their bunk had twin beds. 

***

Whatever had kept them buzzed all that time wore off the instant they reached their safehouse. They gravitated together, like they always did, unspoken, and they wordlessly shared the bed. This time there was no comforting intimacy, each of them turning away and curling on opposite sides, the space a palpable presence between them. 

  
It was sweltering hot, even with all windows open, curtains flowing in the wind. Martín slept for almost twenty hours, and didn’t feel any rested when he finally woke up. His age screamed in his bones, muscles wound tight, new aches and pains announcing themselves throughout his body as he stretched. 

Quite the beginning to what he thought would be ‘the rest of their lives’. 

Andrés wasn’t there. The room was empty, a random gust of air caught in the curtains the only thing that was moving. Martín knew he’d have to find him; they’d have to talk. 

When did everything turn into talking? He wasn’t good at talking. Especially not with Andrés. Especially not now, and especially not with this Andrés.

  
He was in the kitchen, looking in the distance, a newspaper forgotten on the table in front of him. Martín’s heart sank when he saw him. It hurt. It hurt and it made him angry. This time, at the Agent, not at himself. 

Thirteen years. 

It would be fucking poetic if this was his cosmic payback for killing Andrés in that first timeline he jumped in. He didn’t even wait, not even for a second, to see who the Agent was; he just shot. Perfect little Agent, ever so efficient. Shoot, don’t question. Don’t think.

And now, this- this Agent inside Andrés. The same one he’s killed; he was taking Andrés away from him. Using him, tainting him. 

And, by the looks of it, he had no fucking idea what he had done.

The idiot was in love. 

It would be sweet, Andrés de Fonollosa - _Agent Andrés de Fonollosa_ \- head over heels in love. Except it doesn’t feel sweet, it feels sickening.

“Good morning,” he says, breaking Andrés out of his reverie. Andrés smiled at him, happy, lines pulling at his eyes where the smile’s reflected. He still looked tired, though slightly less so than the previous night. Theirs wasn’t a tiredness that a single night’s sleep could cure.

“Good morning. How do you feel?”

“Like shit. But a little less than last night. I’m feeling wounds I don’t remember getting, but at least my brain doesn’t feel like it’s full of cotton anymore. You? Did you take your Retroxil shot this morning?”

Andrés nodded, looking away.

“The last Andrés I’ve jumped into also had Helmer's myopathy. But that was- it was right around the time we went to the monastery in Italy.” He sighed, getting up to get the small kettle off the old gas stove. “He was broken, that Andrés. There was something definitely _wrong_ about him. He was hurting you, and I’m not sure it was unintentional. I wanted to get you- to get Martín away from him, but I think I only managed to make it worse.” Andrés poured water in two mugs, fishing at the last second the string from a tea bag before it slid into the cup. He shook his head. “The first Andrés I found didn’t have it. But of course, it was years before getting the diagnosis, I don’t know if he would have gotten it in the end.”

That last part, _‘I don’t know if he would have gotten it in the end’_. Martín’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He had a pretty good feeling he knew what that meant.

“Was that when- Was that when I shot you?” There, the words; out of his mouth now, not Andrés’.

He nodded. 

“Where did you go after that?“ It felt like- like such a private question, even in their world where ‘where did you go after you died?’ had a whole different meaning.

“The new cycle? New Zealand, sometime in the early 1900s. I was there for about a month, and as soon as I was able to, I jumped into another timeline containing an Andrés de Fonollosa. And I instantly found you again. I think we’re always in each other’s lives, no matter how we get there.”

What a thought. An infinite amount of timelines, and the two former Agents found themselves together in the same one _twice_. 

“What happened to you, after- After you shot me?”

Martín pulls a chair from the table, sinking in on the opposite side from Andrés. 

“I jumped immediately after. It had to be record time; I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to, so soon, but I was. And I got here. I still don’t know how I managed to not completely fry my brain with that code, I’m not even that good a programmer.” Martín rests his forehead in his palms, accepting with a small nod the cup that Andrés pushes his way. He frowns at the cup, consciously noticing for the first time that it was tea.

“Tea?” _His_ Andrés knew that he hated tea. 

“There’s no coffee in this entire place.”

“Oh.”

Well, they did pull off the biggest heist in the world, what were some minor inconveniences now that they were alive, free, and rich?

“Maybe we’ll go out later to find a market?” Andrés suggested.

 _Soft_ , his tone, so soft. It made Martín want to grit his teeth. That wasn’t his Andrés. His Andrés was wildfire, he was dangerous, he was resolute. A force. This-- This wasn’t him. 

“No. I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

“Martín.”

“No.” It was all he could say. _No. No, you are not him. No, you can’t have him._

“Martín, I love you.”

The nerve, the fucking gall. Martín set the cup down, fingers tightening around the handle. 

“You have no right to say that.”

“You know I do. You know him. You know I love you. I know--”

“You don’t know him.”

“I _am_ him.”  
  
“You are _not_ him. You are a perverted addition, a parasite inside his mind, latched on, _confused_. You think you’re him, but that’s not who you are, is it? You’re not Andrés. You’re an Agent. I know who you are.” 

_I know who you are. I’m him too. I know how ugly you are. Andrés isn’t ugly. He’s a blinding light, supernova against the nothingness of space. He’s bright, and violent, and so beautiful._

“You say you love me. Have some decency and give me some time to mourn! I loved him, hijo de puta. I don’t think that even he knew exactly how much. So no. I can’t. I can’t deal with this right now.”

Andrés made no move as Martín sat up and left.

  
  
The rock that was guilt had rolled out of the way, making him fully process what had happened. Making room for grief. 

He had to get the Agent away from Andrés.

Thirteen years. Thirteen fucking years, in which Martín finally understood all those things he’d missed out on when he was with the Acency. Funny how, as an Agent, he used to have no agency, and only as Martín did he finally discover the power of being the one to direct his own life. 

Sergio was right to distrust him in the beginning. Martín was obsessed with being in charge, and he didn’t care about all that resistance crap, not really. He had his freedom, he’d ripped it out of the hands of the Agency; he’d earned it. He didn’t care about any of the things Sergio was talking about. He cared about Andrés, and about their plan. _His_ plan. The biggest declaration he could make to Andrés. _I love you more than all the gold in Spain._

It wasn’t about the gold either, not really. They’d get it out of the bank, melted in small nuggets, but it would never be theirs. That wasn’t the point. The point, at least for him, was to show Andrés tha _t, look, even when I can steal all the gold in Spain, I still choose you._

So this Agent, he was ruining everything.

Martín ended up sitting on the beach until the sand felt too cold under his feet. He dreaded going back, dreading more talk. More words. Words that felt heavier still. 

_You have to go._

Martín felt it, as he approached the house, the time distortion, sickening, wrong, announcing the presence of the Agent. It had a different undercurrent now, a whole new vibration that Martín felt resonating in his gut. He was in the hallway, removing his shoes, when he saw an unfamiliar silhouette in the living room, and heard voices go quiet as soon as he’d kicked his shoes away.

“Oh, look who’s back!”  
  
The man, which Martín vaguely recognized as one of the men sitting in the neighboring courtyard when they came in the previous day, turned to greet him. "Please, join us. Andrés and I were having the most interesting chat."

As he entered the room, Martín saw Andrés tied to a chair, head lolling forward. Blood was staining his lips and the pink of a recent blow split the skin above one of his eyebrows. He understood then, that whole new vibration he felt - the other man was also an Agent.

Martín froze to the spot and began looking around, calculating the best course of action. A fraction of a second of inattention was all it took; he felt a sharp pain against his temple and knees gave out. 

When he came to, he was facing Andrés.

"Martín- Are you okay?"

He couldn't tell. He tried to feel at the sticky wet patch on his temple but found that his arms were tied to the chair, just like Andrés'. Fuck. He looked around. The Agent was gone, but he could still feel that he wasn’t far. Not far - but for the moment, he wasn't there.

"Fuck. What happened? What does he want?"

"From what I can tell, he only wants me. He doesn’t seem to sense you either, so I think you’re safe.”

Safe. He’d feel safer on the business end of a barrel than there, with not one, but two Agents. The _thing_ inside Andrés had brought more shit along with him, a tsunami obliterating everything in its path. He jumped in, took his Andrés prisoner, and he hadn’t stopped taking since.

“Andrés, you have to jump. It’s the only way that he’ll leave.” _The only way he’ll leave me alone. The only way you’ll leave Andrés alone._

“I am not leaving you with this guy. We have no guarantees that he won’t slit your throat the second I jump. He knows about you. About us, and what you mean to me.”  
  
“Fuck; _leave_! You have to leave.” Martín shook his head, the old string of “no” looping on his head. 

“No. Absolutely not. I’m not leaving without you. Can you jump?”  
  
“I think so, I haven’t done it since I got here - I didn’t want the possibility to attract attention, I still don’t know whether the Agency can track me or not. I think not, but-”

“Then you’re not jumping either. Quiet!” Andrés shushed him as footsteps announced the other agent approaching. 

“Right, Agent de Fonollosa.” The man said as he entered the room, taking one bite of an apple and then throwing it back over his shoulder, like an asshole. “I really really want to know what makes you tick. You know, I wish I could just split open that skull of yours to see for myself.”

“Did the Agency send you?” Andrés asked.

The Agent huffed. “Fuckers don’t want anyone touching you, you’re such a taboo. But they don’t know I’m here, so.” He stepped closer to Andrés until he’s arms’ length away, then fisted his hand in Andrés’ hair, tugging sharply. “How did you find Andrés de Fonollosa? Why did you choose him?”

Andrés snarled, spitting on the Agent’s face, which earned him a rough backhand across his face. 

“So this is how you want to play it? Okay. I don’t need to hurt _you_ , to _hurt_ you. What about loverboy here?” The Agent released Andrés’ hair after one last tug, and focused his attention on Martín, where he was tied to the chair in front of Andrés. 

“Do you even know what we’re talking about? I bet he didn’t tell you. I bet he just plays with you, changing you for a new one as soon as he’s used you up real good. Over and over, just spare bodies.”

Martín scowled, then made a small beckoning motion with his head, urging the Agent closer. Once he’s right in front of his face, Martín erupts.

“Fuck you, hijo de puta. I’ll rip that tongue out of your mouth and feed it back to you all cut up in small morsels. I don’t know who the fuck you think he is, but you’re wrong-”

The Agent turned to Andrés. “So you like your boytoys dumb and pretty. Can’t blame you, really.”

Martín fought against the restraints, “La concha de tu madre, you fucker, release me; let’s fight this clean-”

Instead of clean, Martín gets a punch square in his gut, drawing his shoulders forward as much as the ropes allow. He didn’t have time to fully regain his breath as another blow landed on the side of his head, hard, hard enough to make his ears ring. He blinked several times, watching as the Agent turned to Andrés, grabbing his neck, fingers digging into his jaw.

“Your plaything sure is feisty. Dumb, pretty and _feisty_.” He pulled a switchblade from his pocket - Martín’s switchblade, he must have found it in their bedroom - flipped it open and pressed it against Andrés’ neck.

“Now. Tell me how you found this body, this exact one. And why.”

As the Agent spoke, Martín started once again to wrench his body against the restraints, managing to get enough weight on one swing to the side, flipping the chair and falling to the floor. The tunk with which his head collided with the floor was the last thing Martín heard before the ringing in his ears screamed again. 

There was truly no rest for the wicked. The Agent turned with the sound, slipping the blade in it’s casing as he stepped to where Martín was toppled over, and he growled as he kicked him in the gut, in the ribs, over and over, and Martín, he couldn’t do anything but take it. 

He could hear Andrés’ cries from behind the Agent, sometimes catching flashes of him pulling against the restraints when the man moved to gain enough momentum for his kicks. He closed his eyes for the majority of the blows, especially after the vicious one that landed on the side of his head, but when he opened them he saw Andrés, now on his feet, shaking away the last bit of errant rope, lunging for the Agent. 

He tackled the agent who fell alongside Martín and Andrés tried to pin him down, to restrain him, all limbs and twists and grabs. Martín didn’t even know whose boot kicked him in the shin as the men struggled beside him, but he was too gone to care. Pain was thumping with his heartbeat, and he obstinately fought the bile raising in his throat.

Martín honestly felt like he was dying but he hung on, his rage hotter than the ache in his bones, intent on watching the tangle of limbs right across from him. The fight moved closer and he found himself face to face with the Agent, pinned down, one hand bunched all wrong under his body - broken - and the other twisted behind his back.

“Does the Agency know you’re here?”

A gurgle, spit. Foamy blood tricked to the floor as he whispered.

“Fuck you.”

Andrés leaned down across the trembling body beneath him, sliding the blade out from his pocket. He flicked it open and, even though his hand was out of sight, Martín knew by the sharp inhale the Agent took, that it was pressed against his throat. 

“Fuck _me?”_ Andrés laughed. “You’re in no position to threaten me, asshole. Now tell me, do they know you’re here? Did they send you?”

“No, fuck- No. You are to be left alone, I-”

“Good. Now, you won’t ever be back, and you know why?”

The Agent gasped, tilting his head away from the push of the blade.

“I’ll tell you why. Because if you do, if you threaten Martín ever again, if you so much _think_ of finding him, I’ll get to you first. And I’ll _fuck. you. up._ Over and over again, I’ll jump after you, wherever you go, and I’ll fucking _end_ you, every single time. Until the end, until there’s nothing left of your brain to jump. Do you understand?”

The man gave one push against his shoulder, making Andrés lose his balance for just a second. He didn’t let up, dropping his full weight against his lower back and twisting at the arm even further, making the Agent yell and drop to the floor once more. 

And Martín thought he saw _him_ , his Andrés. Though he understood, when he locked eyes with this Andrés, that it wasn’t him. It was the Agent in him. Yet there it was, the fierceness he knew to be at the core of Andrés. A mindfuck, and maybe it was the several blows to the head that Martín had gotten, but he felt like the lines between Andrés and Agent inside his mind were getting blurrier.

Andrés took one shuddering breath, took his eyes away from Martín’s and focused on the Agent beneath him. Martín watched through the haze slowly settling over his eyes, how Andrés leaned over the body of the Agent, his body blanketing the one underneath him, and he saw that hand slither away, the glint of the blade catching his eyes for just a flash. A warning.

He heard the gasp, the keen and the gurgle of blood rushing out. Andrés’ whole body was tense, his gaze ferocious, and his arm pushed deeper and deeper, giving the odd little twist. 

Martín shifted his gaze to the Agent laid by him, he saw him just in time to catch his eyes glazing over with a last exhale, his body falling limp in Andrés’ hold. 

And Andrés- He gave a small laugh. A laugh, a satisfied grin, and yes, that was Andrés. That was _his_ Andrés. He stood up on his haunches and wiped his forehead with the hand holding the blade, streaks of red gliding on smooth silver then seeping into the hilt and between Andrés’ fingers. 

“Fuck.”

He looked at Martín, and the look in his eyes instantly changed. He got up and rushed over the body on the floor, kneeling by Martín and starting to cut the restraints.

“Martín. Are you with me?”

He nodded, weakly. 

“You need a doctor; fuck.” He moved Martín carefully to his side then gingerly lifted his shirt to assess the extent of the injuries. But it hurt when the fabric peeled off his tender skin, it hurt to breathe and, if he stopped to think about it, it hurt to blink; and Andrés was looking at him, face frozen in a silent panic. He didn’t need to say anything, Martín knew he was in a really bad way.

“While you were out, before-- I thought about what you said- Martín, hey!” He tried to touch him but stopped, he stopped before touching any of the bruises, any of the blood. “Just a little longer, I need you awake for just a bit longer okay? I know it’s hard, I’m sorry.” He scrambled closer, laying beside Martín, an arm stretched out in a promise of a touch.

“I thought about what you said, and you’re right. I am confused, and I have no right to-” Andrés sighed, and Martín heard his voice coming from further and further away. “He said the Agency wants to leave me alone, whatever the fuck that means, but you’re right. I can’t be here. He doesn’t think you know anything, and- and he seems to think you’re just a- A distraction.” Andrés settled on the word at the last second. 

“I’ll go. Andrés, _this_ Andrés, he knows how to take care of you, I know he does. I’ll contact Sergio and ask for a doctor; just tell him the guy thought, I don’t know. Thought to rob us. This Andrés won’t remember anything, and that can be due to the concussions, to the illness; whatever. It-”

He touched Martín’s cheek, just a brush of his fingertips, and he tried to hold Andrés’ gaze, as difficult as it was to resist from slipping away.

“I’ll stay with you until the doctor arrives, until I’m sure you’re okay, but then- I’ll go.” Tears welled up in his eyes and Martín felt it, the heartbreak pouring in his voice as he said, “I don’t want to - but I’ll go.” 

When Martín came to, he felt no Agents present. Just Andrés.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More information regarding who the other Time Agent was, the one who came for Andres, in the upcoming companion piece!
> 
> [My Tumblr.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dormarunt) It exists.  
> (in this timeline, at least)


	8. Elliptical Foci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > It’s a _moment_. A moment unlike any other, because it’s the two of them, again. They both know it. It’s finally the two of them. Martín and Andrés, the Agents. Their beautiful, beautiful mess of a life entwined once again. As far as moments go, this isn’t magical. There’s no poetry, not outwardly - they’re in the middle of a heist, there are weapons by their feet, a hostage hogtied on the ground a few steps away, and they’re far enough to not hear the rhythm of the presses as they make them richer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *points at tags again* The warning still stands.

It was the night before going into the Mint, and Andrés’ thoughts wouldn’t stop swirling in expectation of the days to come. He looked at Martín sleeping right by him, those faint snores that usually carried Andrés to sleep now keeping him awake and grounded in the present. Andrés placed his hand against his shoulder, a movement so second nature with them that even through the tendrils of sleep Martín’s body understood and he turned to his side, snuffing out the hiss of his snoring. Andrés inched closer, wrapping his arm around Martín’s waist and pulling him closer, their bodies connected from shoulder to knees in an embrace. 

Martín was hot against him, all soft breath and lazy heartbeat. He was beautiful, with all his scars and broken bones that fused together, with all his anger and joy and his endless willpower. He felt more like a man now, in Andrés’s arms, now that he’d fully grown into his frame; a completely different figure than he was all those years ago, dancing in that bar, right before going back home and nearly blowing up his entire life.

He missed that Martín, maybe most of all. His first. That split-second revelation Andrés had the instant he saw him, an answer turned into a personal purpose; it changed him. Before, he only knew the dry sense of duty instilled by training, but after that? After that it was all him. He knew what he wanted, and he would never stop going for it. There was a self-evident truth in that knowledge, and it made _sense_ in such a way that his missions were never able to.

So he missed that Martín. Just as he missed his next, the one he’d hurt - the both of them had, him _and_ his host. Different frequencies, but overall, the same result: pain. He didn’t like to dwell on those images, of Martín crying in that fucking chapel, after giving him everything he’d ever wanted and then blinking away out of his life. 

And the last one? 

He didn’t want to leave him, that was the simple truth. That Martín had given his Andrés what he himself hoped he’d get, but- then Andrés took it away, unknowingly. He didn’t think it to be such a sin, he was still himself, he was still Andrés; but Martín? He hated the Agent in him. He was right to, of course; they both knew what it made them. 

Andrés sighed and pulled Martín just a little closer. He wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but he couldn't stop thinking. 

They were getting closer now, closer to the events of the last time, when he met Martín, an Agent himself. They had been so in love, so happy, and Andrés? He wanted that for himself. He wanted it back, from where the Agent in Martín had taken it.

Hurt to answer hurt, but then-

Andrés left, and the Agent had gotten his husband back; he got back his chance for happiness that he himself had taken with a bullet to the back. Martín got all that because he left. But he couldn’t forget what they had. Forgive? He understood, to a degree, what the Agent was saying; the Agency was a fierce foe to have. He still had no right to take away his future with Martín, all in a trigger-happy panic.

And yet, he gave the Agent his future back. He couldn’t _not_ do that; he knew that love, he understood it. He couldn’t stop it, he knew the pain too well.

So Andrés left. He left, and found another timeline, found this Martín. They too, lived out their decade. It was long overdue. 

He was ashamed to admit it even to himself, for a very long time, that he was emulating the lives of the Agent Martín and his Andrés. He was tracing the outlines of a life he remembered, but hadn’t lived, so he worked to make it real. 

And he did. His was as happy a life as his previous host’s; and even though he sometimes felt a shade ashamed of it, he didn’t regret his decision. He got his happiness - and the Agent in Martín continued to get his.

All because Andrés left.

Fuck, it was late. He wouldn’t feel it the next day, or the day after that - the adrenaline of the heist would make sure of that. But he’ll feel it one day, when they’ll be inside the Mint, and Andrés will regret not resting while he had the chance.

He didn’t know why he gravitated towards the Royal Mint again; it can’t have been just the adrenaline of it all. There was something about those events that made him itch to relieve them.

Except it would happen differently this time, the part he was thinking of, and Andrés knew it. 

He still decided to go into the Mint. Maybe it was for the adrenaline after all. 

Maybe.

Martín mumbled something in his sleep, his leg twitching against his own, and Andrés became acutely aware of his surroundings. He had let his guard down; he was getting sloppier, losing some of the edge he had as an Agent.

See, Andrés did hate that part of himself, his years with the Agency. But it was an integral part of him, and he’d gone through the whole god-damned-thing so he could finally be free. And he was. No sense dwelling on the inherent facts of life. He hadn’t done the right thing, not once as an Agent, but at least he did things right when he left.

Martín- Martín the Agent, he clearly saw things differently. He saw Agents as parasites, corrupting and just _wrong_. Which was- well, it was fair enough.

That’s why Andrés had left the Agent.

Though, in a messed up way, it had been nice, being with him. Not Martín's anger or the pain he’d been subjected to, but the fact that the two of them could just- _talk_ about things. About extraordinary situations in ordinary ways. They shared that past, and they shared the same kind of future.

A future marked with death, when it came down to it.

Because Martín would die. Over and over, Andrés would have to watch him die. And then he’d start again. And again. 

It was no hardship, and he’d do it in a heartbeat.

But the idea of an honest, open life started to appeal more than a string of broken ones. 

And yeah, maybe it was a little messed up. 

Maybe.

...

The sky is gray, the suits are dark and that gaping hole inside his heart, it's black and edgeless.

Martín said his goodbyes again, not to Andrés himself but to the ground around him.

He doesn't want to think about the pain now, he wants to think about the love - though that burns a hole inside him too. He thinks about Andrés, and what it was like to fall in love with him.

And his mind is tricky, picking _this_ Andrés to focus on, when really, the truth was-

The truth was, the first Andrés that Martín had fallen in love with, back in Madrid, on that last night in a wild weekend- That wasn't just Andrés. That was Andrés _and_ . Andrés _and_ the Agent.

The man he fell in love with, even before he inherited the memory, the feeling, the absolute certainty of being in love with Andrés, was the one that came all the way to Buenos Aires to save Martín from himself. The one that he then shot in the back.

However, it was Andrés - _just_ Andrés - who made all that love real to Martín. It was him that Martín loved so much that he followed him everywhere, he bought into every one of his crazy plans. He was the one that ended up in prison just to save Martín. No arguments, like it was the obvious thing to do. That Andrés was the one to buy a whole fucking monastery for them to plan their heist in. For him to propose to Martín, for him to marry Martín right there. 

Martín knew all this. But now, he also knew that he would have done the same things the first time around too, were he to have the chance. He would have done every single one of those things with Andrés _and_ the Agent.

It was hard, saying goodbye. Properly this time, instead of carrying Andrés around in his chest, a burden of guilt, like he did before. He had the chance to say goodbye.

Too early.

Sergio was by his side, a charcoal sketch of frozen emotion; unmoving, face blank with the inability to fully process the pain. He was the last to accept what was happening, Andrés and Martín having agreed long ago - in a rare night when the pain wasn't so overpowering that even morphine couldn't keep at bay - that once it got too bad, they'd stop fighting it.

And of course it was hard for Martín to accept that too. But he did it, nonetheless. He did it for Andrés. Everything he did, _everything_ , it was for Andrés.

But now he was gone.

It was hypocritical maybe. Definitely. Especially given the specific kind of asshole Martín had been with him; it was hypocritical to go to him now. 

Or ever.

But how could he not?

He was _his_ Andrés.

…

Andrés went upstairs to talk to Denver and Mónica, because he knew; he waited for it to happen. He’s done the Mint heist before - well, not him exactly but the previous Andrés - so he knows that it would happen. So when the phone hidden between Mónica’s thighs chimes, he stops to ponder his next steps. 

He has two choices: he can let it happen, and suffer the punishment of having his reputation - such as it was - be dragged through the mud, having disgusting lies broadcast about him, or- Or he can stop it. 

It was easy to order Denver to pretend to shoot her and hide her away somewhere; the rest of the hostages wouldn’t be any the wiser. A whole mess neatly avoided, pain spared for the woman, no punishment for himself.

“Kill her.”

And, though it may not have sounded like it, it was the right thing to do.

Not a lot of happy endings for love stories that began when one has to kill the other, but with Denver and Mónica? That bullet was the catalyst to their relationship, and, well. Turns out Andrés had found a new purpose in not letting people’s love die when he could help it. 

Martín was mortified when he heard. Andrés tried to argue his point, to reason that they would lose authority with the rest of the hostages, but the words felt soft and hollow- Because they were, there was no sturdy logic behind killing Mónica instead of merely pretending like they had. The real reason behind his decision was the chain of events his action would set in motion, but Andrés couldn’t tell Martín that. He couldn’t tell Martín a lot of things.

And it weighed on him.

…

Martín gritted his teeth as he looked around them, at the small office, duffel bag open, weapons and rope spilling to the ground. He was prepared for chaos, he was expecting it but actually experiencing it? He was not a patient man. He pocketed the gun and returned his attention to the trembling red figure in front of him. 

Arturo. The fucker wouldn’t let up. 

Then- Martín took a sharp inhale because something was _wrong_ , something _big_ that he had no words for. He started blinking rapidly. There was an itch, pinpricks dancing deep inside his brain. He tried to speak, to reach out, this wasn’t normal, this wasn’t okay, this was- He closed his eyes, gasping, his shaking hands trying to find any solid surface to hold on to. He rested a hand on Arturo’s shoulder, the other finding purchase against the window, fingers catching in the blinds, then he took a sharp inhale and- 

And he was fine. The Agent opened his eyes, and he smiled wide at the frightened fucker in front of him.

“Arturito, my old friend! Fancy meeting you here.”

Arturo felt that something was off, and he stared, both at Martín and at the hand placed on his shoulder. The squirrely idiot started looking around, as if there was anything he could do, but Martín moved his hand from around his shoulder to wrap around his neck. And the way his panic only became sharper, oh, it _fed_ Martín in all the right ways.

Maybe he was a little high, a little manic, but Martín couldn’t stop grinning. He’d made it; he could sense Agent Andrés, so he’d made it. Finally. Fifth time was a charm. He’d made it, and here he was seconds away from pulling yet another thorn from his side. 

And yeah, he was a little _off_. It was the time lag, sure, but it was also relief, washing through him, and- He took another sharp inhale, closing his eyes, and yes. Marin’s memories flooded in. 

He couldn’t stop smiling and he knew he must have looked unhinged to Arturo, one hand around his throat and grinning. 

“Arturito, dear. My dearest.”

Martín gets closer, close enough to let his head rest on Arturo’s shoulder as he shushes gently. 

“You seem like a man who’s used to being in charge, am I right?” Arturo doesn’t nod. He doesn’t do anything, terror widening his eyes.

“And like every man in charge, you have the absolute power over your destiny. See, the way I see it, you have two choices now. I give you back the gun you stole, and you carry out that brave plan of yours, outsmarting us all,” he snorted at the evident impossibility of that, “or- Or you tell me, you ask _‘tie me up, Palermo’,_ and I will. I’ll help you, Arturito, I’ll help you fulfill your destiny. It’s what I do, I’m giving like that. I’ll tie you up, gag you, and I’ll leave you here for the police to find. Now, if you ask me all pretty, I’ll even remember to have someone come and feed you. Maybe even take you to the bathroom from time to time. But it’s up to you. It’s all up to you.”

Then Martín feels it, overpowering and heady, and laughs in the crook of Arturo’s neck. He feels it and starts to crave for it instead of loathing it, the sickening upset in the timeflow. Andrés. _His_ Andrés. 

Fucking _finally._

When the door to the office opens, Andrés sees Martín pasted to Arturo’s front, one hand around his throat, the other braced against the wall behind Arturo. 

“Am I interrupting something?”

Deliriously, Martín starts to laugh harder. He brushes Arturo’s cheek with his nose when he finally speaks.

“Arturito here is about to make a decision. Isn’t that so?” He’s looking him in the eye now, still smiling, their little in-joke funny as a car crash.

Arturo looks at Andrés, but dares not look at Martín when he finally whispers, shakily. 

“Tie me up.”

“Hm? What was that?” says Martín, eyebrows lifted, expecting something else on top of those words.

“Tie me up, Palermo. _Please.”_

Martín sighs, turning to Andrés, one hand still cupping Arturo’s throat, feeling his pulse under his fingers, the scared gulps in his Adam’s apple. He shrugs, in a ‘what else can I do?’ gesture, and Andrés picks up on the strangeness of the scene, but does not stop it.

“Please tell me you don’t plan to fuck him into being a nice, obedient hostage.”

And Arturo fucking whimpers, like that was decidedly the worst course of action of them all.

Martín looks at Arturo like he’s actually considering it. He’s enjoying it, why lie. He enjoys too much the power he has, and how absolutely twisted he feels in the moment. It’s not just Martín who’s doing this, it’s definitely a lot of the Agent too and no, he doesn’t mind it quite that much anymore. It is what it is - he is who he is. And the best thing is, it seems that he can control it.

“Nah.” And Arturo sighs, and Martín laughs again. “Rope?” He looks at Andrés, expectantly, and Andrés goes to rifle through the duffel bag on the floor, retrieving a couple of loops of rope, handing them to Martín.

“You’re really lucky, Arturito, real lucky, and you know why?” Arturo shakes his head, trying to keep his eyes down. “Because I’m a fucking _artist_ with rope. No sloppy ties here, no loose knots. No rope burn, no nerve damage. And no chance to get out.”

He leaves Arturo securely hogtied, lying on the floor of the office, and resists the burning urge to kick him in his ratty face. 

Once the absolute mess that is Arturo is nicely contained, Martín focuses all his attention on Andrés. It’s been a while.

And Andrés still has no idea he was there. 

He knows the rule was to not show their connection in front of the hostages, he also knows that, so far, they somehow managed to respect that particular rule. Just as he knows that he doesn’t give a fuck about it anymore, as he lunges for Andrés, making him lose his footing just a bit as he kisses him, all hot and messy.

“What’s gotten into you?” Andrés pushes him away just a bit, watching Martín as he touches his own lips, smiling. 

“Are you wearing a belt?” 

Andrés does the only reasonable thing, which is to raise his eyebrows and repeat, “A belt?” Then, after a beat, he continues. “What’s going on?” 

“I was thinking that this time you could tie _me_ up.” And he looks, and knows, he knows he has to tell Andrés who he is, but the speech he had prepared is all but forgotten now. Priorities have also shifted in the past couple of seconds.

“Palermo, it’s neither the time nor the place for this, as much-”

“Tie me up, like that time in Madrid. In your apartment. That night.” 

Martín sees the words unfurl inside Andrés’ head, and watches the realisation set itself in his eyes. 

It’s a _moment._ A moment unlike any other, because it’s the two of them, again. They both know it. It’s finally the two of them. Martín and Andrés, the Agents. Their beautiful, beautiful mess of a life entwined once again. As far as moments go, this isn’t magical. There’s no poetry, not outwardly - they’re in the middle of a heist, there are weapons by their feet, a hostage hogtied on the ground a few steps away, and they’re far enough to not hear the rhythm of the presses as they make them richer. 

The moment stretches as they twine their fingers together and just watch each other. 

“You found me.”

Martín would smile, but he already is, and he can’t smile any wider. It’s happiness, and relief, and- yeah, maybe love. Maybe he’s confused.

Maybe.

“I did. You know how you said you’d find me, over and over again?” Andrés nods. “Though I see the appeal in that, how about-” He sighs, nervously. But he still smiles, that he can’t stop. “How about we do that-”

And it’s hard to say it. It’s hard because he knows how he felt when it was him in Andrés’ situation. But he has to. 

Because he wants to, and because, with him, he _can._

“How about we do that together from now on? Together.”

“Together.” Andrés repeats, breath caught in his chest. “You and me?”

Martín shrugs, and nods. 

“If- if it’s alright. If you forgive me. If you want to.”

“I do.”

…

They are in one of the offices that Berlin had chosen for himself, citing a really bad headache and buying themselves a couple of hours alone. They're both pretty peeved to have left Tokio in charge but they also know that she is more than capable of doing it - though it's not something they’d admit freely.

Martín locks the door and leans against it, the same stupid smile stuck to his face. And really, it was the smile that let everyone in to the fact that their story was a lie; they were all more than quick to empathize with the sick man who needed to rest, but then they looked at Martín behind him, and they knew. They all knew.

So yeah, they wouldn't be disturbed. Still, Martín locks the door. They were surrounded by children, hostages seemed to run loose left and right, and Martín decides he’s having none of that for at least a couple of hours.

Andrés is leaning against the desk and he smiles back, and for a moment Martín doesn't want to move, to break the strange little connection they share, wordlessly.

"I missed you." Andrés says, simply.

At the same time Martín says, "I want you to fuck me over that--" Silence. "--desk-" The last word seems to echo in the silence, and he holds back the next thing he was about to say, which was 'or against this door.'

They both stop, analyzing the other's words, and Andrés finally asks, "Really?"

Really?

_"Really?"_

"I mean, I thought we'd talk."

"We have all the time in the world to talk. You, most of all, should know that."

Andrés laughs, but is intent on arguing back - like he's wont to do.

"Arguably, we have all the time in the world to fuck over this desk, too."

" _Arguably,_ " Martín is irritated, "we only have a couple of days left in here so no, this particular desk is a limited time offer."

"Martín, I haven't seen you in- over a decade, I just want to talk, to--"

"Just how badly do you _not_ want your dick sucked right now?"

And finally, Martín must have made a compelling point, because Andrés sighs, the heave of his chest one that Martín knows too well to mean surrender - be it a temporary one.

Martín pushes against the door and walks towards the desk. He has questions too, quite a few, but he also has an erection, and hey, he needs a clear head and a full supply of blood for a talk anyway.

Andrés only moves to brace himself against the desk, leaning back, inviting just like he always is when Martín gets like this. He likes to be worshiped, like he _allows_ Martín to do it, like it’s a gift, and Martín; he sure likes this particular brand of gift. He’s face to face with Andrés now, breathing so close to his lips, teasing, not touching, as he works the zipper of the overall, pulling it lower, then focusing on the gun holster. 

Martín has seen Andrés in the most exquisite formalwear, bespoke suits of indecently expensive fabric, and still, that leather holster is the single hottest thing he’s ever worn. He slides it off his shoulders, sad to see it go but grateful when he can get the fucking overall off. 

He lets it hang around Andrés’ waist, taking a step back to just look. Martín shakes his head because this, everything, it’s too much. There’s so much he wants to say, but so little of it is words, the rest is just rippling emotion, sweet heartbreak; it’s regret and relief all at once. It’s hope and walls of fear threatening to rise around his heart. He’s never been more afraid to _want_ than he did in that moment, when he understood he had no right to do so, no right to expect, but- 

Like nothing has happened, Andrés kisses him, hands in Martín’s hair, and he knows this, he knows every one of Andrés’ sounds, he knows the way his body moves, the way he’s pressing himself closer, and Martín hopes that maybe it all works out.

Hopefully.

And yes, it’s easy with them. It’s decades of knowing each other, in this and other bodies, small changes to an otherwise identical mold. They know what the other needs. This is not a journey of discovery, this is swimming in familiar waters, this is the comfort of an earned intimacy, ease and lack of trepidation. It’s good. It’s _them._

Andrés turns them around, then, wrapping his arms under Martín’s thighs, lifts him up just enough to sit him on the edge of the desk. He inches himself between his knees, pressing closer, eating the space from between their bodies, hands cupping his face and just looking. It’s that, that thing, the way Andrés looks at him like he’s the answer to everything, like he’s a precious thing, like he doesn’t house a coiling knot of ugly and sin; Andrés, this Andrés, _his_ Andrés, he’s always looked at him like that. Even when Martín was just a lost boy, trembling on the precipice. Loving, patient, forgiving; it was all that, and it was as overpowering as the first time.

And it was such a revelation, as Andrés kissed him again, like that time in his apartment in Madrid, it was such a revelation to fill in the blanks in his emotion. To understand the words that were unspoken then, words he hadn't heard but felt. He understood - it was love between them, even before it became love. Martín found himself discovering Andrés just like he undoubtedly discovered Martín back then, piecing together flashes of memories in the reality that was the two of them. 

Twisted. They were both so twisted, their past twisted in blood and _wrong_ , their future twisted together in hope and all that was right. 

Andrés pushes him, gently laying him across the desk, watching him entranced, and Martín feels once again like he did back then - small, ugly, unworthy of all the reverence he was being showered in. Back then, Andrés didn't know him, but now? He did, he knew all of it. And the look in his eyes, inexplicably, hadn't changed one bit.

“You can’t imagine how much I missed you.”

But he can, he knows it all too well. He reaches one hand out, Andrés already moving to catch it in his own, knitting their fingers together.

“Think we can pick up where we left off? Before-”

He doesn’t need to say before what, they both know. It’s a stain between them, screaming to not be ignored, forgotten, but maybe- maybe they can build upon it. A mountain to climb, together.

Andrés smiles, bright and beautiful, and his eyes say yes.

“Together.” Martín says, pieces of thoughts spilling out in the air, self-contained. “I’m sorry.” and he’s all broken now, and he squeezes Andrés’ hand, “I’m sorry.” 

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_

Andrés kisses the words from his lips, because he knows it, he feels it, but he won’t let it stop them.

“I know,” he breathes softly against Martín’s cheek, “I know, love. I’m sorry too, all of this, us, it’s-”

He doesn’t say what it is, but Martín knows. It’s heavy, it’s definitely a lot, it’s strange and somehow, still right. They make no sense, with how they found each other, with how it seemed like it was meant to happen like that, over and over. Celestial bodies caught in the other’s orbit, the force keeping them together so strong that not even their cosmic sins could break them apart. 

Martín is right there, in the moment, fully aware, fully awake, fully open, and Andrés is right beside him, and it’s suddenly becoming too much. He pulls at Martín’s zipper, lower and lower, then curses and Martín understands, pushing against the desk, standing to help take off the many layers between them, too many, unbearably so. It’s an uncoordinated mess, Andrés peeling off the overall while Martín pulls his t-shirt off, losing his balance as Andrés tries to push the red fabric lower on his legs, where it’s gotten caught in his thigh holster. 

“Fuck it, leave it. Pants-” Andrés pulls them lower and they stop at the thigh but there’s no patience to do more, and he leaves them like that, bunched around his thighs. Martín turns, almost losing his footing where he’s caught in the clothes, catching the holster laying by his feet with one of his boots. He leans against the desk and Andrés is right there, pressing down against his lower back and he can’t stand it, can’t stand that there’s still fabric between them so he reaches a hand behind him to hike Andrés’ t-shirt higher, sending a message that’s instantly understood. And there, there’s skin, hot against his own, and he can feel Andrés’ heartbeat punch its way through his chest, his hot breath raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Fuck, we don’t- there’s no lube.”

Martín laughs, because, yeah, there is.

“Your medical kit, under the padding of the syringes.” There’s movement behind him and Andrés reaches out, there’s the sound of a zipper, things fall over the desk and there’s cursing, a small laugh, and Andrés says, a little breathless, “I don’t know why I expected anything less from you.”

Martín is more than ready, he says so, but Andrés doesn’t let up, his breath itching between Martín’s shoulders as his fingers open him up. “Fucking _do it_ already, jesus-” he pushes against his elbows, tilting his head back, touching Andrés’ slightly, and fortunately he gets the message. His head falls forward with that first press of Andrés’ cock, sliding in one long, slow thrust, and yeah, that does it. He should be prepared for what’s next, but he isn’t - the way Andrés straightens his back, one hand still biting his hip, and pulls out almost entirely just to thrust back in, hips snapping, pushing Martín just a little further against the desk. He’d forgotten about that part, how absolutely relentless this Andrés was.

This time, there’s no confusion in Andrés’ mind - they’re not making love, they’re fucking. They’re inside the Mint, perpetrating the biggest heist in history, there’s protesters and police and armed vehicles outside, and they’re locked in an office, fucking like the world’s ending.

But it’s not, the heist is going well despite the many challenges, and they both know how to get out of the Mint alive. Their own personal world? It isn’t going to end, it’s finally beginning.

They’re a satiated mess across the floor where they ended up eventually, legs tangled in their overalls. They still couldn’t unfasten Martín’s thigh holster, both deciding that snaps were past their collective ability and patience in the moment, but they ended up having to remove one of his boots as he tried to push one of the pants’ legs off. So the boot was tossed somewhere under a chair, Martín's pants and jumpsuit hang off one thigh, they’re both sweaty and sticky, and neither of them wants to move. 

“I can’t believe we have to go back in there.” Martín sighed. The heist had suddenly become so small in the grand scheme of things. “Let’s just jump, I don’t know; we’ll both jump and I'll follow you and we can just-- be? For a moment.”

“We can’t do this to Sergio. I’ve- He’s my brother, in this and all other timelines, just like you’re- Everything else.”

There’s that stupid smile again, plastered to Martín’s face, and he feels like maybe- _maybe_ it’s all going to be alright after all.

“And you can’t tell me the others haven’t grown on you too, I’ve seen you with them.”

“Fine, sure, we’ll stay,” he rolls his eyes, because he’s right, though. “I was just kidding anyway.” Well, maybe he meant it a little bit too.

But they cleaned up, they joined the others and absolutely no one mentioned anything. 

It was perfect.

At least until the CNI somehow managed to break in sooner than they expected, even though they already stopped the presses sooner like the last time. They were the last to enter the tunnel, having gotten caught in a hail of bullets that they barely escaped under the cover of a grenade exploding. 

“My shoulder-” Martín winced as Andrés linked their hands and pulled Martín through the tunnel. Fuck, he’d been hit.

The armed soldiers had probably just gotten inside the vault and were assessing the situation, so they still had a few moments before gunfire resumed. Enough time to wrap Martín’s other arm around his own shoulders and almost drag him towards the end of the tunnel. 

“What’s the delay, two seconds? Three?” Andrés asked, glancing a look at Martín, who was leaning more and more into his body. There was probably another wound he wasn’t aware about.

“Two.”

“Fuck. Tell me when it’s safe to have Helsinki blow up the tunnel.”

“Do you think they’re in the vault?”

“Yes.”

Martín strained to turn and look at the explosives set on the walls behind them.

“Well I say two in hundred meters should be okay, once we’re past the third light. You radio, we take the bend and drop to the ground.”

“Do you think it’s enough time?”

Martín nodded.

“Enough time for us too; don’t be an idiot. If you cycle I won’t be able to find you, you know that.”

“But I can find _you.”_

“You can. Good. Let’s not do any of that and, instead, make it out alive?”

Martín tried for a snort, but the pain he was surely in made it sound almost like a sob.

“Yeah, past that third light. Get ready.”

It was _barely_ enough time. Gravity and chance had been good to them and the bits of the tunnel that did collapse around them, missed them entirely. They got out. All of them.

Andrés held Martín’s hand where they hid in the back of Sergio’s truck as they got away from the police. He held his hand on that boat, when Sergio pulled out the bullet in Martín’s shoulder. 

Andrés hated the two bunk beds this time around. 

He still held his arm out, fingers barely brushing, trying to touch anything of Martín’s as he reached out from his own bed. 

He held Martín’s hand throughout the bumpy bus ride taking them to their safehouse. He held him closer still in their bed, reverently kissing his lips, his temples, his cheekbones, until Martín batted him away, sleepily, but with a content smile.

Right before sleep settled in, Martín spoke.

“So what’s next?”

 _Happiness_ , Andrés thought, and he knew it to be true.

“Next? The gold.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is, it’s finally over - Time Husbands reunited <3  
> This has been, to date, my favorite thing I’ve ever written. I hope I did the story justice, because it’s a world that’s dear to me, one that I really enjoyed writing out.
> 
> What’s next, though, is a companion piece that’s to follow shortly. It will answer a few more things from this main fic, and it will see them a little later in their future(s).   
> It is also mostly smut, so-- 
> 
> But answers too.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3 You can come on  to talk more about, well, stuff. 

**Author's Note:**

> Loads of thanks to @reasonoptional, Shotgun_Cake (@bi-and-dangerous) and @yourcococris for helping me navigate some of this time-mess! <3
> 
> Come say hi on Tumbr, allá también soy @DorMarunt


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